


Cruel Summer

by Miranda_Glass



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Consent Issues, Elio is a liar, Elio is still in love with Oliver, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Jealousy, M/M, Oliver is a masochist, Protective Oliver, Resolution, Slow Burn, True Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-08-06 14:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 58,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16389644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miranda_Glass/pseuds/Miranda_Glass
Summary: Oliver returns to Italy a year later.He has terminated his engagement, but Elio has a boyfriend and doesn't want anything to do with Oliver.What could possibly go wrong?Narrated from Oliver's POV.The characters are not mine. I don't own a thing.Please do not re-post my work on other platforms without my consent.





	1. Sex Crime

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the story is a Bananarama song released in 1983.
> 
> The title of the chapter is from the soundtrack of the film 1984. 
> 
> The references are from the novel and the film.

 

" _And so I face the wall_  
_Turn_ _my back against it all_  
_How I wish I'd been unborn_  
_Wish I was unliving here"_

_Sex Crime (1984) - Eurythmics_

 

_Italy, Summer of 1984_

I was in Italy again.

The last thing I’d have imagined when I’d boarded that train in Rome was that I’d be returning so soon.

I had promised to visit at Christmas, but it had been only wishful thinking: between my fledgling career at Columbia, my recent engagement and the pressures of my family, there was little wiggle room for a pleasure trip to Europe.

I had kept in touch with the Perlmans and corresponded with Vimini, but there had been total radio silence with Elio after he’d found out about my fiancée, Lucy.

I couldn’t blame him: after all, I had conveniently omitted to mention her. Yes, we had been on a break at the time, but that didn’t excuse my silence on the matter. Samuel had informed me that Elio had asked his dad and Annella not to tell me anything about him; Elio also didn’t want to know anything further about me. Pro was sad when he told me, but I reassured him that I understood and forgave. Not that there was anything to forgive. I accepted my burden of guilt and carried it with as much grace as I could muster.

Vimini wasn’t as discreet.

“He has a boyfriend,” she told me, when she called me to wish me happy birthday at the end of April. I could almost see her eye-roll. “He’s pretentious and French and his name is Patrice.” She pronounced it correctly, but with exaggerated emphasis.

By that time, my relationship with Lucy was already rocky and I was suffering from major writer’s block. The first draft of my book was as unpalatable to me as the endless arguments and slammed doors that characterised my encounters with the woman I was supposed to love.

Supposed, that was the operative word. Lucy was everything a normal, healthy man should desire – or so that’s what my mother loved to tell me: a classical beauty, a future lawyer and from a wealthy Jewish family. What more could I ask for? She’d give me handsome and intelligent kids and would be the power behind the throne. What throne, I’d wondered, but my mother had scoffed and ignored me. My father was half in love with Lucy too and my friends were either in awe of her or lusting after her.

I was neither.

Every time I closed my eyes to kiss her, I expected to smell that mixture of chamomile and sweat that was peculiarly Elio’s. I felt the phantom of his curls tickle my cheeks and my hand sought the soft line of his throat.

I missed him and the passing of time only worsened the pain.

Things came to a head on the most glorious of afternoons in May.

We were drinking fresh orange juice that we’d purchased from a market stall and strolling in what I’d believed was companionable silence.

“It almost tastes like Mafalda’s apricot juice,” I remarked innocently.

Lucy must have been waiting for it, the pretext she needed in order to unleash her anger and frustration.

“If I hear that name again,” she hissed, “Or anything connected to your precious Perlman family, I will scream.”

“You are already screaming.”

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and grabbed my upper arm.

“You have no idea how fed up I am with your endless stories about that pointless little place in the middle of nowhere.”

“I was happy there,” I replied, defiantly.

“And you are not happy here,” she said, narrowing her blue eyes to slits.

I blushed, couldn’t help it.

“Of course I’m happy,” I lied, “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“If you were one of my clients, I’d say you were being evasive.”

“You don’t have any clients yet.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.

“Nice,” she commented, “You are demeaning my professional achievements. It’s not enough that you no longer appreciate my other assets.”

Passers-by had started to stare.

“I don’t want to do this in front of an audience,” I argued.

We were not far from my apartment, so we hurried back to it, walking in inimical silence, as though we’d left the oven on and were blaming one another for that mishap.

As soon as I closed the door, she unloaded her virtual gun.

“You haven’t touched me in months. When was the last time, do you even remember it?”

I couldn’t.

“It was a week after Valentine’s Day. You were high and I was drunk. When you came, you called me a name which wasn’t mine.”

“What are you talking about?”

I tried to put on my poker face, but I couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Yes, yes, it was someone else’s name,” she insisted, clawing at my chest with her manicured nails, “I thought I’d let it slide, because, well, who hasn’t had a little summer affair? But since you are not fucking me, you must still be pining after her. Who is she?”

“I’m not pining and there is no other woman,” I replied, finally meeting her gaze. She was not convinced.

“You were all over me before,” she insisted, “Unless you are sick or--- you are not sick, are you?”

_I wish everybody was as sick as you._

“I’m fine. It’s just that I,” I stuttered, trying to cobble together a decent line of defence, “Everything had been so sudden. First, you dumped me and went to San Francisco with your friends---”

She snorted loudly.

“Way to rewrite history,” she said, “You told me you were going to Italy and didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go with you.”

“You don’t speak the language, don’t like the weather or the food and despise Italian men because they are – your words – _too slimy_.”

“And despite all that, you chose to go there, of all places.”

“It was for my book, I told you.”

“You could have gone to Greece,” she countered, “Your philosopher was Greek.”

“Mr Perlman was in Italy and it was him I wanted to consult.”

She let out an exasperated sigh.

“Look, I don’t care what happened over there. All I want is for you to go back to being the Oliver I fell in love with. Can you do that?”

_Is it better to speak or to die?_

I took a deep breath and made my choice.

“I don’t think I can. And it’s not because of a woman.”

“You don’t love me anymore.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m really sorry, Luce,” I said, caressing her long wavy hair, “Perhaps we shouldn’t have rushed into it. I don’t know what to say.”

Not the truth, not yet. I was terrified of admitting it to myself.

She returned the engagement ring and moved to Boston. Her brother lived there and she’d had tried to convince me to leave New York more than once. Thankfully, I had not agreed.

My parents were deeply disappointed and didn’t miss a chance to remind me that I had not given them much to be proud of: I wasn’t wealthy or successful and now I’d let Lucy slip away.

There was no one I could tell about my internal struggle: I was in love with a boy of eighteen and I was gay. Maybe I still liked women, but not enough that I could be turned on by a hot red-head such as Lucy. Her curves did nothing for me, but the mere thought of Elio’s naked chest made my groin twitch. I was lost and had not a soul to turn to.

I should have known that salvation would come from the same source that had given me my torment and damnation: Satan was a fallen angel, after all.

“The girl’s bailed out,” Vimini told me over the phone, gleefully.

She was being cryptic on purpose. I loved her for that too.

“What girl?” I thought Elio had a boyfriend, but I didn’t say it.

“Your replacement,” she replied, “A girl from Manchester in England; she’s met a Spanish boy and is spending the summer in Cádiz with his family.”

That was a lot of information.

“Who told you that?”

She side-stepped my question, “Why don’t you come instead? I’d be so happy, and Elio won’t be there anyway.”

“Going to France, I imagine.”

“Yeah, to Avignon, where the Popes used to reside,” she informed me.

“I don’t think they’d want me there again.”

“Yes, they would! I have suggested it and you should have seen how they smiled. Even Anchise said something and he never speaks unless it’s about the garden or fishing.”

“Okay, okay,” I replied, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Samuel phoned me two days later. I was editing the second part of my book for the nth time and I was grateful for the interruption. He immediately cut to the chase.

“Vimini told us,” he said, “What do you think? Annella and I would love to have you here. The villa will feel empty without Elio and you’re like a son to us.”

My throat tightened.

“You can bring your lovely fiancée with you. The more the merrier.”

I hadn’t told Vimini about breaking up with Lucy and she’d assumed I would travel solo. I didn’t want the Perlmans to know either. I felt like a charity case already.

“She’s made plans to visit her brother,” I lied, “But if you are sure---”

“We can’t wait to have you here. You can stay for as long as you like. We are travelling down there next week. I’m sure Vimini has told you about Elio.”

I didn’t deny it.

“We won’t tell him about you, if you prefer.”

“I don’t want you to lie to him.”

I heard him sigh.

“It’s what he asked, so we are only fulfilling his wishes. And he won’t call more than once every two weeks and just to let us know that he’s alive and well. As long as you don’t answer the phone, we should be alright.”

I laughed through the knot in my chest.

“I will keep well away from it,” I replied, with a chuckle.

“I’ll tell Mafalda to prepare your room.”

“I’d rather sleep in the spare one this time.”

He agreed. We said our goodbyes and arranged to get in touch again once I’d firmed up my plans.

 

I bought my tickets the following day, but this time I purchased an open return, since I had no idea what I was doing.

I felt a bit like the character in Plath’s Bell Jar during the summer in which her best laid plans had fallen through and she’d been left to her own devices with disastrous consequences. I was lonely, not for lack of friends, but because I was embarking on a path which – I was certain – would not, and could not, bring me happiness. And yet how I longed to be in the same house and environs where I’d been myself for the first and last time.

I informed Samuel and Annella of my arrival date, which almost coincided to last year’s one.

 

In the fifteen days that followed, I functioned on autopilot: I went to work, took care of my shopping and other chores, saw my friends; I was detached from everything, as if I’d already left and was watching myself from an alternative dimension.

The only time I was present to myself was the one night when I decided to visit a gay bar in Christopher Street. It had to be done, I said to myself. I may not be missing Elio, but only the body of another man. I had been there once a few years ago with a couple of friends, in search of a bit of fun. The place was scarcely lit and not very clean, with an old jukebox in one corner and a bright red neon sign which said ‘more tables upstairs’. I ordered a beer and drank it standing up. The green velvet seats looked filthy.

“Hey there,” a voice said, after a while. “First time I see you around here.”

It was a man about my age, slim, with short dark hair and almond shaped eyes. He placed his hand on my shoulder and it seared into me like a hot iron.

“Yeah,” I said, “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m an old customer,” he grinned. He had a lovely smile.

We chatted about unimportant things for a while; I offered him a drink and bought myself a second beer. When he proposed we adjourned elsewhere, I nodded. I was nervous, but sexually aroused for the first time in months.

The private room was not much larger than a broom closet, but it had a couch and a door that could be bolted from the inside.

Our encounter was a messy tangle of mouths and hands: I came in his mouth and he streaked my stomach with his load.

When his tongue had touched mine, I’d felt like crying.

That hadn’t solved anything.

I was still in love with Elio.

 


	2. Foreign Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's back at the villa and Elio is not there.  
> Not yet, at least....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks to all of you for the kudos and comments. You made me very happy!!! I promise that I will answer to all of them.
> 
> Foreign Affair is a song by Mike Oldfield released in 1983.
> 
> Notte Prima Degli Esami (Night Before the Exams) is an Italian song released in 1984.
> 
> The Esame di Maturità is roughly equivalent to the A-levels.

Like the previous year, I arrived at the villa on a late sunny afternoon, but this time I wasn’t exhausted, at least not physically.

I’d made sure to sleep during the entire journey with the help of a pill, and when I set foot outside Linate airport, my emotions were kept in check by the after-effects of the Xanax. Elio wouldn’t be there – that I was certain of – but I wasn’t yet sure whether his absence would be a relief or a torture.

Anchise was at the Arrivals gate waiting for me and we shook hands with the familiarity of old friends. He was not a talker, so he switched the car radio on and I was subjected to a stream of Euro-pop hits which plunged me back to the previous summer.

I stared outside the window, absorbing the view without really paying any attention, feeling the sweat trickle between my shoulder-blades and down my armpits.

One year ago, I had been travelling from Sicily on a packed, stuffy train and I’d been looking forward to a shower and clean sheets. Now, I couldn’t care less.

I would be sleeping in what had been Elio’s bed, sitting at his desk, looking out his window. His presence, like the ghost of summers past, would be everywhere.

And I had done this to myself, so I couldn’t even pretend to blame the fickle hand of destiny.

 

“Oliver, Tesoro,” intoned Annella and Samuel in unison; she’d had her hair cut into a wavy bob and looked ten years younger, while he was just the same, from his piercing eyes down to his old-fashioned shoes.

They hugged me and we had a brief chat before they let me go upstairs to wash and rest before dinner.

“Anchise can bring your suitcase, but you know where you are going,” Annella said, winking. I nodded and swallowed the lump in my throat.

“I can manage,” I added, patting Anchise on the back. The truth was that I couldn’t face to have company while I crossed that threshold.

Everything was painfully familiar and completely different at the same time.

On the stairs, instead of Marzia, I met Mafalda, who greeted me with her customary maternal gruffness. I wanted to hug her too, but didn’t want to embarrass her.

I stopped on the same spot in which Elio has stood that morning after our first time, as we’d negotiated his revulsion for what we’d done, for me.

He’d thought I hadn’t realised that he’d hated me; we’d never talked about it, not even later, when the intimacy between us had overcome shame and distaste.

But I had known it the moment he’d glanced at me after he’d awakened and felt the ache and the stench of possession. I’d smiled at him and he’d grimaced; he didn’t hold my gaze and couldn’t stand my touch.

On that pearly dawn, with the birds already chirping outside the window, I had died a little.

 

I couldn’t resist: I tried to open the door to his room. It was locked.

Elio had wanted to make sure that the new usurper wouldn’t trespass: it made me sad but relieved too. Temptation would have been too hard to resist.

Inside the spare room, every trace of Elio had disappeared: the desk was empty and so were the old armoire and the bedside table. The sheets were pale blue and smelled of lavender.

I tried the connecting door: it was bolted on the other side. I set my suitcase on the chair by the bed and my duffel bag on top of it. I opened the window and remembered the slim figure of the boy I loved as he’d gazed into the void, no longer a virgin.

It was then that I made a resolution: I would not tell anyone, not even Vimini, that I had parted company with Lucy. Elio had moved on and I didn’t want to be hassled or flirted with. I would lead a blameless life: sun-bathing, exercise, friends, dinner drudgery, my book, Pro’s paperwork, bike rides and good food. By August, I’d have figured out what I wanted to do and, most of all, who I wanted to be.

 

When Mafalda rang the bell, I put on my espadrilles and was ready to face the world.

“Where are the others?” I asked, having expected the usual mixed crowd of friends and distant cousins.

The table was in its usual place, under the linden tree.

“Just us, tesoro,” replied Annella, “We thought you might need a bit of peace and quiet on your first evening.”

I tried not to stare at the empty place where Elio would have sat, had he been here.

“Look at you,” she grasped my chin between her thumb and index finger, “You lost weight. Is that girl not feeding you?”

“You forget that our Oliver is a chef,” Samuel joked.

“He can’t cut the top off a soft-boiled egg,” she remonstrated.

Truly, it was like being back home; not my real home, but the one where I belonged.

I laughed and thanked Mafalda, who was serving me a generous portion of grilled fish.

“I have been very busy,” I replied, “But I’m sure you’ll fatten me up in no time.”

They smiled at me with fondness.

The _rosatello_ was as lethal as I recalled: after three glasses and a lively conversation that included Italian and American politics, the philosophical themes in The Name of the Rose and the poetry of Ezra Pound, I was ready for bed.

I kissed Annella on both cheeks, hugged Samuel and climbed up the stairs.

As I drifted off, I reflected that they had not mentioned their son even in passing.

 

A week went by and I was starting to relax.

Chiara and her family were holidaying at her aunt’s villa in Bordighera, but I met Marzia in Crema. I was queuing up to buy gelato, when I felt a tap on the shoulder.

We hugged and embarked on a stilted conversation about the weather and her studies.

“Come and sit with me on that bench outside the _bar_ _tabaccheria_ ,” she proposed and I agreed.

After we’d eaten our ice-creams, I offered her a cigarette.

“I heard that you’re getting married,” she said. She spoke in heavily accented English mixed with occasional Italian words.

“Not just yet, but I got engaged,” I replied, puffing on my Gauloise and looking up at the church steeple.

“Elio cried for days after he found out.” She examined me with her serious brown eyes. “He didn’t say a word, he just sobbed like a baby.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. My arms tingled with the desire to hold my boy and comfort him. Too late; I was too late. “I’m glad he found someone.”

“Are you?”

I was afraid my voice might betray me, so I pretended to ponder her question.

“We rushed into our affair,” I replied, after a while, “It was intense because we knew it had to end. And by the way, I regret that you had to suffer because of it.”

“Is that what it was, an affair?”

She sounded vaguely disgusted and that made me angry.

“It doesn’t mean that I didn’t have feelings for him,” I argued.

“It’s none of my business, but you didn’t treat him very well. He told me about the phone call.”

That had been terribly insensitive of me and I could hardly bear to be reminded of it.

“I could have phrased it better,” I conceded.

“You asked him if he minded that you were getting engaged to a woman he’d never heard about.”

“Yeah,” I scratched the back of my head and wished I could turn back the clock.

“Patrice is very nice,” she said, defensively, “He adores Elio. Maybe he needed someone his own age.”

“You are probably right.”                         

I wanted to ask and didn’t want to know; wanted to be a million miles away and nowhere else but here: these warring feelings were making me queasy.

She sighed and touched my hand, in a gesture of forgiveness.

“I know it must have been difficult and now he has Patrice.”

She told me about him: a French boy whose parents were recently divorced. His mother had moved to Italy while his father was still in France. He was a budding painter and could appear snobbish, but Marzia was convinced that he was only insecure. They’d met when Patrice had been transferred to Elio’s class and Elio had taken him under his wing. They’d had their _Esame di Maturità_ that year so they’d studied together.

“Elio nearly drove me crazy singing _Notte Prima Degli Esami_ every time we spoke on the phone,” she giggled.

“I’m sure he did well.”

“You know him; he’s already thinking about University.”

“Is he still coming to the States?”

She seemed to suddenly realise something.

“You are staying with his family; didn’t they tell you?”

I explained the situation and she gasped, bringing her hand to her lips.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“We needed closure,” I lied, “And there could be none until I knew that Elio was happy. Thanks for telling me.”

We chatted some more then she said goodbye and walked away.

 

Vimini had been taken to Rome for an emergency treatment and would not return for another week.

My days elapsed as slow and sweet as treacle.

Everything was going well until it wasn’t.

I was emerging from Samuel’s study, where I’d been searching for a reference book, when I heard Pro’s voice. He was arguing with someone on the phone.

“Calm down and tell me what happened. What? Did you get hurt? That’s unacceptable. I don’t care about their family dramas; I may sympathise and commiserate, but that’s as far as I will go. You are not staying there. Yes, of course he can come too. Take the first train back and call us when you are at the station. Yes, yes, but let’s not talk about it on the phone. We love you.”

I cleared my throat and he turned towards me, a watery smile on his lips.

“What a mess,” he said.

“Did they have a fight?”

My heart was throbbing in my temples. I would need a couple of Xanax to fall asleep that night.

Samuel related what Elio had told him: Patrice’s father was still sore about the divorce and had taken to drinking heavily. While under the influence, he’d insulted his ex-wife and his son had tried to defend his mother. The discussion had escalated into a fight. Plates and other implements had been thrown and Elio had been hit by a sliver of glass which had grazed his ear. The lobe had bled profusely and he’d felt light-headed. Both father and son had calmed down and apologised, but the damage was done. The wound wasn’t serious, but Elio’s presence inside that house had come to its premature end.

“You haven’t told him about me,” I said.

He sighed.

“I want him to come home,” he replied.

“I better go find another place to stay.”

“You are not going anywhere,” he stated, staring me in the eye. “You and Elio had a very important friendship; maybe it was more than that, but that part is over. What remains is a precious bond and you should not walk away from it.”

Again, I had to fight back the tears.

“He will be very angry with you and Annella for having lied to him about the summer guest.”

“We’ll survive and so will he,” Samuel declared, “And let me tell you, my dear, that I’m not at all convinced about Patrice. I will not interfere, but I will keep a watchful eye on that boy.”

“He’s not violent, is he?”

“Moody, but Annella and I made allowances for him because of the divorce.”

I wasn’t going to be as lenient; not if Elio got hurt in the process.

“Did he need stitches?”

“No, it was only a graze, but the earlobe always bleeds a lot.”

We agreed to meet the following morning to discuss the doctrine of impermanence in relation to the Hōjōki tale.  I left him and the book I had taken from his study and went for a long bike ride in the countryside.

I returned when it was night and the house was bathed in darkness.

Only a few hours and I would be face to face with Elio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver meet again...


	3. Self Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Patrice arrive.
> 
> Let the games begin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your support, you are amazing!!!
> 
> Self Control is a song which was written and performed by Italian singer Raf and covered by American singer Laura Branigan. Both versions were released in 1984.
> 
> Mon ange = my angel

_"Another night another day goes by_  
_I never stop myself to wonder why_  
_You're makin' me forget to play my role_  
_You take my self you take my self control"_

They arrived when the afternoon was mellowing into evening.

Annella had driven to the train station because she thought Patrice would feel more at ease with her than either her husband or Anchise.

I spent the day away from the villa, but I was in my room when the car pulled in. I had been forced back as if by a magnetic force, the same that was inducing me to look down from the open window.

In my fevered imagination, Elio would emerge from the back of the car like Venus from the sea: in slow motion, wet and sensual. In reality, he was wearing denim shorts and a striped polo shirt; his hair was longer and he seemed taller and broader in the shoulders.

Both Marzia and Vimini had forgotten to mention how impossibly handsome Patrice was: shorter and slighter than Elio, he had white-blond hair and the classical features of a cherub. From high up I couldn’t see his eyes, but what I saw was Elio’s hand on the small of the other boy’s back and the air of protectiveness that emanated from him. It made me hollow inside, as though I had been gutted by one of Anchise’s fish knives; it also evoked in me a tenderness which had never been there before, at least not in this guise. Maybe I had just forgotten that he’d behaved like that with me too or I had chosen to overlook it; I had preferred to believe that he was too young to take care of me; that it was my role to be the protector, due to my superior age and experience. Roles are like armours: they empower and constrict the wearer, and if one dons them for a very long time, they modify the body’s posture and even stunt its growth, all the while providing a fake semblance of safety.

 

They climbed the stairs and I heard their voices and the door of Elio’s room being slammed, or perhaps it had done so by itself, like on that first night--- but I didn’t want to think about it. I decided it was time to sneak out, but instead of leaving the house, I opted for smoking on the balcony. I couldn’t believe that it was really happening; that I was reunited with Elio and that we wouldn’t be on speaking terms, as if those two weeks of love-making and passion had never happened.

I was grinding the cigarette against the wrought-iron railings, when I heard footsteps coming up behind me.

“What the.... Oliver?”

I drew a deep breath, curved my lips into a smile and turned around.

Elio’s face had lost the soft padding of adolescence and his features were sharply defined. I didn’t dare look down at his body; I wasn’t sure my self control would allow me to do so without reaching out.

Fury and bewilderment battled in his eyes, and for a while we remained speechless. When he recovered, his tone was ice-cold.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I thought your--- Annella had told you,” I replied, lamely.

“Told me what? That you’re visiting? Is this your,” he stopped, brought his fist to rest under his chin, pressing against his throat. I wanted to kiss him all over.

He threw me a venomous glance.

“Have you come on your honeymoon? It’s just like you, isn’t it?” he sneered, “Keeping secrets from me, doing things behind my back.”

“I didn’t---”

He snapped.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hissed, “You must have known I wasn’t going to be here and you jumped at the opportunity.”

“Please, don’t be angry with your parents.”

He let out a bitter chuckle.

“Why would I? It’s not their fault that they can’t see how devious you really are. They are good people, they give their trust too easily. I won’t make the same mistake twice. So,” he threw his head back, straightened to his full height, “Where is the unlucky bride?”

I flinched.

“We aren’t married yet,” I replied, “I’m here on my own and she’s gone to stay with her brother.”

“I see,” he grimaced, “You want to have one last adventure before tying the knot. Who’s the chosen victim? Chiara’s not here, so you’ll have to work harder; not that it ever troubled you; you always had your pick.”

I was tempted to tell him the truth.

“It’s my book,” I said, instead, “I have writer’s block and since your summer guest bailed out---”

That was the last straw.

His eyes widened and his jaw worked frantically.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he spat out. “You have no shame, no respect, not a scrap of sense in your big fat head. You were, what, going to spend the summer here like nothing ever happened?”

I couldn’t say a word.

“Who told you about the girl’s change of plans? It can’t have been my parents,” he was biting his lips and tugging at his curls. “Of course, how stupid of me; it was Vimini, wasn’t it? She’d do anything for you. I can’t even blame her, since I was the same, once.”

That hurt more than a kick in the head.

“I told your father that I’d move out.”

He laughed.

“Like a rat deserting the sinking ship?  I never took you for a coward: a liar and a cheat, yes, but not a coward.”

“It’s your home and you don’t want me here.”

His face relaxed into a blank expression.

“I don’t care what you do. I am with Patrice, as I am sure you already know.”

I stole a glance at his injured ear. He touched the bandaged lobe with his fingertips.

“It wasn’t his fault. His father was upset,” he explained, defensively, “That can happen when you care deeply about somebody. You wouldn’t know, of course.”

“You aren’t being fair.”

He raised his hand as though he wanted to slap me then reined himself in.

“I’ve had enough of this conversation,” he said, “You can’t stay where you are. Patrice and I will use the spare bathroom across the landing, so the adjoining door will remain bolted.”

Unfortunately, the villa had no additional bedrooms where I could relocate.

“If you are sure,” I replied.

“You have your book, we’ll have our _pastimes_.”

He was waiting for my reaction when a voice interrupted us.

“Elio, _mon ange_ , I can’t find a clean towel.”

Patrice was wearing only his underpants and flip-flops on his small, narrow feet.

His eyes were cloudy grey and reminded me of glass marbles. His plush mouth was the colour of raspberries and his complexion was fair but inclined to tan easily. He had an upturned nose and a sullen expression.

Elio placed a hand on the boy’s slim waist and kissed him on the cheek.

Patrice looked at me and pouted.

“Who are you?” he asked. He spoke English with a marked French accent.

Elio made the introductions and it was evident that he’d told Patrice about me.

He didn’t shake my hand or offer me the customary continental greeting.

“You are Oliver?” he marvelled, “But you are _old_ ,” and then to Elio, “You didn’t tell me that he was so old; and big and so very _américain_.”

I wanted to reply that he was rude and short and so very French, but I didn’t want to upset Elio. Besides, I was supposed to be the adult and, like Samuel had said, make allowances for Patrice’s moodiness because of his family issues.

“I’m a decrepit New Yorker and I’m afraid nothing can be done about it. Hopefully old age will shrink me down to a more acceptable size,” I said, and noticed that Elio’s lips were quivering, as though he was suppressing a smile.

“Is it true that you’re writing a book?”

“Doing my best, which at the moment doesn’t amount to much.”

He pushed a few strands of platinum blond hair away from his forehead with the back of his hand.  

“I paint,” he said, proudly, “Words can only go so far. Not like music,” he gazed at Elio, who squeezed the boy’s rounded shoulder. Patrice seemed even younger than seventeen-year-old Elio.

“I’m sure you are right,” I concluded, “But I can’t draw and my attempts at playing the guitar ended when my neighbours threatened to have me evicted from the building.”

“You can’t have been that bad,” Elio muttered.

“My playing is worse than my dancing.”

I shouldn’t have mentioned that.

“Come on,” Elio said, taking his boyfriend’s hand, “I’ll show you where our bathroom is. There are fresh towels in there.”

“But I thought,” the boy started arguing, but I didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, as I was already running down the stairs.

 

The group of friends we had frequented the previous summer had not stayed unchanged: there had been desertions and additions. Among the latter were two brothers who had Italian names but a British mother and thus spoke impeccable English. Daniele Adorni was twenty while his bother Stefano was my age; they had the kind of black hair which glistened blue in the sunshine and they both loved sports. I had watched them play volleyball once and they had invited me to join in. I had refused, preferring to jog along the river. They were friends with Raffaele, who – they’d told me – was dating Marzia. I remembered that they’d been close the previous year, but she had been too caught up with Elio to pay him any mind. He had grown too, so much that I’d barely recognised him.

 

That day had been stifling hot so they had arranged to play a game just before dinner. I didn’t want to hang around the villa or swim in the pool nor did I want to monopolise Elio’s parents when they surely wanted a chat with their son without me being in the way.

I thought that sweating out the toxins of my meeting with Elio would be a better idea than seething in solitude.

We played until the sky turned indigo and when I returned, I tried to sneak inside the house unseen. I did not succeed.

“I saved you a plate of gnocchi,” Mafalda said, guiding me towards the table.

The Perlmans were sipping coffee, while Elio and Patrice ate tiramisu.

“Anchise told us you didn’t take your bike,” Samuel remarked.

“No, I was playing volley with the Adorni brothers,” I replied.

Annella lit a cigarette and smiled softly.

“Who?” asked Elio, without looking up from his dessert.

“I know their father,” she explained, “He works for my publisher.” She was a freelance translator, but was employed mainly by a big firm whose head office was in Milan. “They are lovely boys and so bright.”

“Well, not really boys anymore,” argued Samuel, “The younger one must be nineteen at least.”

“Twenty,” I interjected, “And Stefano is twenty-five. _Really old_ ,” I added, looking at Patrice, who pointedly ignored me.

“At last, Oliver’s in the company of equals,” Elio said. “Last year he was surrounded by kids, weren’t you?”

I swallowed a mouthful of wine, trying to keep my composure.

“I don’t know, I didn’t notice their age,” I replied.

“No, no, that’s right, you don’t mind what age they are,” he sniggered, “How very democratic of you.”

“Well, I come from the land of the free, after all,” I couldn’t help but answer back.

“I don’t like playing sports,” Patrice stated, “But I suppose you need to keep fit,” he eyed my stomach and my thighs, “Or you’ll become obese. Isn’t it what happens to you over there after a certain age?”

The kid had put his finger on a sore spot: I’d always worried about my tendency to put on weight, which is why I never let a day go by without jogging or swimming or going to the gym.

“No one’s becoming obese,” said Samuel, sounding more professorial than ever, “And sports are invaluable for maintaining your heart and mind in top condition.”

“Patrice and I will go bike-riding tomorrow,” Elio said to his father and then, to me, “You don’t mind if he borrows Anchise’s bike, do you?”

I knew what he was doing and I was not going to let him see how it affected me.

“Be my guest,” I replied, “I have agreed to play doubles with Raffaele, Stefano and Daniele tomorrow.”

He nodded, clenching his jaw and wrapping his hand around Patrice’s slight wrist.

Annella exhaled a cloud of smoke and stood up, “I’m going to watch the news,” she announced, and Samuel rose too, taking the bottle of wine and two glasses with him.

“You can join us, if you like,” he said, and clapped a hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Go be with the grown-ups,” Elio chided.

“I intend to,” I said. I wiped my mouth with a napkin, folded it carefully and placed it next to my plate.

As I walked away, I felt elated and very much alive. I hadn’t felt like that in months, not since I’d said goodbye to Elio.


	4. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver have breakfast together. Well, sort of.  
> Sparks fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your kudos and comments: you don't know how happy you make me!!! Love on you all!!!!!
> 
> Sweet Dreams is a song by Eurythmics released in 1983

 " _Sweet dreams are made of this  
Who am I to disagree?”_

 

 

My state of excitement lasted only until bedtime.

I couldn’t help but resent the fact that Patrice was allowed to share a room with Elio while I was left imagining their beds being pushed together, like we’d used to do, and their bodies touching--- but I didn’t want to go there.

I went to the bathroom and heard their voices, so I let the water run and made quick work of washing and brushing my teeth. I listened to some rock music on my Walkman, while my thoughts roamed back to the past.

The first night we’d spent together had not been exceptional: I was nervous, he was terrified, and both of us were trying to hide our emotions. I enjoyed it greatly all the same, but he was more entranced by the enormity of the act than present in the moment. And then came the disgust which, like an overflowing river, had ruined the possibility of a sweeter, less frantic sexual encounter in the early morning.

The second time, I’d let him be on top and he’d been thoroughly in his element. It was my first time and it had been my turn to feel tense and unable to savour the pleasure he was giving me.

It was the third time that everything changed.

We’d spent the afternoon swimming and reading, but it was still a few hours before dinner.

Elio had lured me into the attic so that we could smoke in peace without Mafalda finding out, he’d said. The door had one of those decrepit bolts which shed rust at every use and never get oiled.

When he’d pulled it shut, I’d asked: “Are you sure it’s gonna work and that we aren’t gonna be trapped in here?”

He’d kissed me on the neck, as he’d peeled off my t-shirt.

“Would that be so bad?”

“As long as they bring us food and apricot juice,” I’d joked.

He’d bitten my collarbone and squeezed my ass.

“I have all the nourishment I need,” he’d replied, half-serious.

In the few hours that had followed, we had discovered each other’s bodies in ways we’d never experimented before.

He had licked me all over, and I’d found out that my nipples would stand erect at the lightest brush of his fingers. He’d asked me to clasp his throat while I drove into him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I’d said, and he’d smiled wickedly.

“No worries,” he’d whispered against my mouth, “I do it to myself sometimes, but I never imagined---”

“What?”

He’d taken my hand and held it in his.

“Look how big it is compared to mine.”

“You know what they say,” I’d joked, and he’d burst out laughing.

“I don’t mind that either,” he’d said, rolling on top of me and pushing his hips down. I’d closed my eyes and let him do as he pleased.

 

The tape auto-reversed and I let it play until I fell asleep.

My memories had invaded my dreams and I woke up with a painful erection and a vague recollection of sucking Elio’s dick.

It was barely dawn but I couldn’t stand the thought of jacking off while the cause of my arousal was in the next room with his lover.  

I decided to go for a swim, carefully choosing a newly purchased bathing suit rather than one of those I’d used the year before.

Elio had asked me for the red one and I’d said yes, but in the haste and the heartbreak of saying goodbye, we’d forgotten all about it. I’d left him my shirt, the one he’d named billowy, but I was sure that he no longer had it. He’d probably set fire to it, I thought with wry amusement.

I had the small pond all to myself; only the birds and the fish to keep me company.

The cool water and the exercise cleared my head and afterwards I sat at the foot of a chestnut tree and pondered the situation.

I had come here to finish my book and to find out who I really was; whether I was the Oliver who had adventures before settling down or the Oliver who had stumbled upon true love and had been stupid enough to let it go.

Reality, of course, was a different proposition. Elio was here and he wasn’t alone.

I had behaved like a fractious child the previous evening, and in the light of day I was a bit ashamed of myself.

Yes, Patrice had been rude, but he was only a kid whose parents had undergone what had probably been a venomous separation. He must have been jealous of me and my past relationship with Elio. As for Elio, he had every reason to be upset with me and I had none to expect that he’d treat me with anything other than coldness.

I was also forced to admit that maybe, after having tried an older man, he was intrigued by the possibility of putting all his experience to the test with someone younger, more innocent, less problematic. Because there was no denying that I had issues of the kind that Elio shouldn’t have been subjected to: my family would never accept a gay son and I wasn’t sure that I’d ever be able to openly embrace my identity.

Elio’s parents were liberal and tolerant and he had no idea, nor should he, what it was like to be surrounded by bigots. I resolved to stay out of their way as much as possible, to always be polite and patient when they addressed me and to avoid sparring, and flirting, with Elio.

 

I hastened back, took a quick shower and changed into a t-shirt and shorts before heading down to breakfast.

Annella and Samuel were already there: he was reading the newspaper and she was chatting with Mafalda about the dinner menu.

“ _Buongiorno_ ,” they greeted me and again, I felt as though this was my home.

I poured myself some coffee and spread thick home-made jam on a slice of fresh bread. Everything smelled and tasted heavenly.

“What are you plans for the day, _tesoro_?” Annella asked me.

“He’s working with me this morning,” Samuel intervened, folding his _Corriere della Sera_.

“Don’t let him treat you like a slave,” she said, winking at her husband.

They started one of those noisy back-and-forth in which they liked to engage sometimes; very Italian in tone and manner, and that we foreigners often mistook for real quarrels.

I beamed at them, happy to just sit back and let the words wash over me, like the crashing of ocean waves.

I had my back to the door so I didn’t see him emerge from it, but Annella’s gaze was very eloquent.

“ _Piccino_ ,” she said, “Isn’t it too early for you?”

Elio was wearing a yellow t-shirt and his trade-mark denim shorts. He sat at the far end of the table and his mother poured him a glass of fruit juice.

“I woke up at dawn and couldn’t go back to sleep,” he replied, scowling at me.

“Always happens when you change beds,” Samuel remarked, and then he asked, “Is Patrice not with you?”

“He’s not a morning person,” Elio explained, “Unlike some people.”

“I was like him at his age,” I said, “Going jogging in the morning was always a struggle.”

“But you did it all the same,” he said, as he heaped dollops of Nutella on a piece of toast, “Such a creature of habit.”

Samuel picked up his newspaper again and buried his face between the pages; Annella gathered her cigarettes, lighter and the book she was reading and went back inside.

“It’s only a matter of discipline,” I said, without looking at him, “When you make a commitment, it feels wrong to give in to laziness.”

“It’s not as if the Olympic committee was checking on you,” he sneered, “You set such impossible standards for yourself, you’re bound to fail.”

“Better to fail than to have no standards,” I replied, but then I reminded myself that I wasn’t supposed to argue with him. “But you are right, taking a day, or even a week off is not the end of the world.”

My sudden capitulation left him nonplussed.

“Am I right to say that Patrice didn’t take any of his painting gear with him?” asked Samuel, who had chosen his moment to interrupt us.

“We left in a hurry and anyway it would have been too heavy,” said Elio, who was still frowning and eyeing me with suspicion.

“I was thinking that maybe Anchise could drive you to Crema and you could buy him what he needs.”

Elio blinked furiously, whether because he was confused or moved I couldn’t tell.

“I’m not sure he’ll accept.”

“Tell him that it’s a present for his birthday.”

“It was in March.”

“A belated gift,” Samuel insisted.

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” I said, smiling.

“Why are you so sure? You don’t know him,” Elio hissed.

His father folded the paper and set it down on the table.

“I’ll see you in about an hour, if that’s alright?” he asked me.

I nodded my head and he left, humming a tune as he strode towards the orchard, probably in search of Anchise.

“Keep your opinions about Patrice to yourself,” Elio said, “You have no idea what he likes or dislikes, and anyway it’s none of your business.”

“I was only taking part in the conversation,” I replied, “With no secret agenda, believe it or not.”

“That would be a first,” he said, “Oliver the poker player showing his hand. Nah, I don’t buy it.”

“I haven’t played in a long time.”

“Maybe you are getting rusty.”

“Could be,” I conceded, finishing my coffee. I stood up and walked to the door. I was about to reach the bottom of the staircase when he caught up with me.

“What’s your tactic, Oliver?” he whispered, gazing at me with such contempt I almost reeled back as though he’d hit me. “Are you planning to seduce him too?”

That was so absurd and I was so nervous that I barked out a laugh.

“That’s what you think of me?” I shook my head, “I’ve made mistakes and my behaviour wasn’t impeccable,” he snorted, “But do you really believe that I would stoop so low?”

He was avoiding my eyes and his cheeks were flushed.

“I don’t know what to believe,” he murmured, sounding so bereft and small that I had to ball my hands into fists not to reach out.

“Look, could we maybe try to put the past behind us?” I pleaded, “I’m not saying we should be friends again, but at least behave civilly to one another. You are with Patrice and I respect that. I won’t interfere in any way or try to belittle him.”

“What about yesterday?”

“Yes, okay, but he caught me by surprise and I acted like a smartass.”

He gave me a timid smile.

“You really did.”

“He was rude though. Maybe tell him to tone it down a little.”

“He was stressed because of what happened with his father.”

“I’m really sorry about everything, but I’m also glad you didn’t stay there.”

He touched his lobe. The plaster had come off a little and I could see the scratch starting to heal. I wanted to lick it better.

“I can take care of myself.”

“That’s what the victims of violent people say in these cases. And they are wrong. What if he’d thrown a glass at you? Just a sliver severing an artery in your neck and there would have been nothing to do.”

I shuddered.

“Patrice said he won’t see him again until he goes to a therapist.”

“That’s a very mature decision. Make sure he sticks to it.”

He nodded, looking down at his feet, which were bare as he didn’t like to wear shoes while at the villa.

When he looked up again, there was a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What?” I asked.

He stretched out his arm towards me and said:

“ _Tregua?_ ”

I smiled back and shook his hand.

“Yes, _tregua_ ,” I agreed, with a mixture of joy and pain in my heart.

I became aware that it was how things were going to be from then on, for the rest of my stay: the balm of his nearness would always be tinged with the sadness of having missed my chance, of having jumped on the wrong train at the wrong time.


	5. Ricochet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Stefano Adorni.
> 
> Also, that 'tregua' thing ain't going too well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks so much for your comment and kudos and for reading my little story. I am astonished and very humbled by your support.
> 
>  
> 
> Ricochet is a song by David Bowie released in 1983 (part of Let's Dance)

 

 _“Early, before the sun,_  
_they struggle off to the gates_  
_In their secret fearful places_  
_they see their lives_  
_Unravelling before them”_

 

I spent three hours with Samuel, helping him sort out some notes and correspondence; in addition to that, we discussed the possible conclusion to my book. It was always inspiring and demanding to be in his company and when I left his study, I felt wrung out but also filled with a greater sense of intellectual purpose.

I went up to my room to change into my bathing suit, since I intended to go for a swim. When I crossed the hall, I heard a voice loudly expostulating in French.

Patrice, I thought. Better to ignore it and mind my own business.

I hurried on, but then a shout of “ _Merde_ ,” and a noise of something crashing to the ground halted me and forced me to retrace my steps.

Cautiously, I peered into the sitting room and saw the reason of the commotion.

Patrice was talking on the phone and in his anger he’d upset a pile of books which were stacked on the console against which he was leaning. Elio was picking them up and when he caught sight of me, his cheeks went red. The blond boy was gesticulating and his eyes were wet with tears. I offered my help, but Elio shook his head.

“It’s his father,” he murmured, “He took his car out while under the influence and drove it into a tree. Luckily, no one was hurt but the car is a write-off.”

“I assume that Patrice is an only son,” I said.

“No, he has an older brother, but he lives in Canada and had enough of his family.”

“I can’t blame him, but he shouldn’t let his younger sibling bear the weight all alone.”

“His father has two brothers who live in France. They are doing what they can to help, but it’s not easy,” Elio explained, then he added, “And Patrice has me and my family.”

I had brought this on myself with my talk of _tregua_ and respecting their relationship, but it hurt like hellfire all the same.

“He couldn’t have found a more loving and tolerant group of people.”

Patrice was still talking, but he seemed calmer, so I took it as my cue to exit the scene.

“Are you going to play tennis?” Elio asked.

“In the afternoon, yes,” I replied, “Now I am only going for a dip in the pool.”

“I’ve never seen those before,” he said, indicating my trunks.

“My summer wardrobe needed updating.”

I caught a glimmer of the old puckish Elio in the smile he flashed me.

“I hope you didn’t throw everything away,” he replied, “Such a waste.”

“I couldn’t afford to,” I said, striking an ambiguous note.

He nodded his head repeatedly, gazing at the Star of David hanging from my neck. I noticed that he was wearing his too, and I cast a glance in Patrice’s direction.

“No, he isn’t,” Elio answered my unspoken question. With his usual perspicacity, he had read the entire score-sheet of my response and was immediately on the defensive.

“It doesn’t matter; we have plenty of things in common.”

“I’m sure you do.”

He bristled, “You said you wouldn’t behave like a smartass.”

“I was only agreeing with you.”

“Yeah, right,” he sneered. “You are always so quick to judge. I remember when we had that journalist over for dinner. He was trying to discuss philosophy with you and after he was gone, you verbally crucified him. You mimicked his way of speaking and laughed at him.”

I recalled the episode he was referring to: the man had been pretentious and annoying, but I had reacted with such virulence only because of Elio.

I had wanted him to know that I understood him; that I could read between the lines and see beyond the veneer of Elio’s fake aloofness. I’d also enjoyed showing off a bit, and of that I wasn’t proud.

“I would never laugh at you,” I replied.

He was about to say something when Patrice shouted for some _clopes_. Elio went to hand him his pack of cigarettes and his lighter.

“Later,” I said, and didn’t wait for his reply.

 

At lunchtime I prepared myself a sandwich and took it up to my room. I wanted to arrange the notes I had taken in Samuel’s study and see whether I could construct a coherent dissertation out of them. I worked at it for a while, but the intense heat of the afternoon made me sleepy, so I surrendered to it. I lay down on the bed that had been Elio’s and left the window open, like we’d used to do during and after our lovemaking sessions. Thankfully, the adjoining room was empty, so I dozed off listening to the song of the cicadas and inhaling the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee.

 

I was awakened by the sound of laughter. I removed my sweat-soaked t-shirt and gazed out into the garden.

Annella and three of her friends were playing cards by the pool and - not far from them - Elio was massaging sun lotion on to the skin of Patrick’s back. I couldn’t see them clearly, but it was their voices which I had heard. They seemed to be teasing one another about something and deriving a lot of fun from their mock-wrestling.

The bullet I had fired last year when I’d told Elio that I was engaged to Lucy was like a boomerang, ricocheting through time and hitting me straight in the chest.

Spying on them was making it worse, so I took a quick shower, put on my tennis whites and headed to the makeshift courts, on the outskirts of the villa.

I avoided the garden and the pool, taking a shortcut from the back of the house.

 

Stefano Adorni was already there, but his brother and Raffaele had not yet turned up.

“Shall we play a game without them?” he suggested.

“Let’s just wait a few minutes and see what happens.”

We sat down under one of the tall oak trees that separated the orchards from the manicured lawns; he drank from a bottle of chilled mineral water then offered it to me.

“I heard that Elio’s returned,” he said.

They had never met, but he’d heard about him from Marzia and the others.

“Yeah, he and Patrice,” I replied, trying not to sound too curt.

“That’s his French boyfriend, isn’t it?”

I wondered whether he disapproved of gay relationships, but he soon disabused me of that idea.

“My uncle is with a man,” he said, “You should have seen the face of my mother when her brother in law announced that he was divorcing his wife and shacking up with this guy called Ludovico.”

I imagined my mother’s reaction in a similar situation and nearly groaned.

“What about your father?”

He chuckled.

“Oh, _papà_ takes no interest in people’s personal affairs. It’s only books, books and even more books for him. Maybe he could publish yours too.”

“Thanks for the kind offer, but I already have a publisher; the most patient one in the universe.”

The question I wanted to ask was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t want to appear too curious.

“Do you think that he was always into men?”

Stefano smiled broadly.

“I don’t need to guess, he told us everything. He said that he’d fallen in love with my aunt, but that he was never sexually attracted to her. At that point my mother’s eyes had all but popped out of their sockets,” he giggled, “Then he said that he’d met Ludovico during a business trip and the mutual attraction was immediate. It was like it was meant to be, the stars had aligned: you get the gist.”

“Does he have kids?”

“One, and incredibly, both he and my aunt are okay with Ludovico. They live in the same house, on different floors. Like one big family.”

I was astonished and said as much.

“I thought Italians were such traditionalists,” I remarked.

“Church and family,” he grinned, “But that’s just a front. We are, after all, descended from the Ancient Romans, who knew a thing or three about immorality.”

He had a point, and I was looking forward to spending more time with him; it had been a while since I’d made a new friend my age. Maybe, in due course, I could even confide in him and get his advice on my situation with Elio.

Just then his brother arrived with Raffaele in tow. They were eager to start so we paired up and played until sunset.

 

We were collecting the discarded tennis balls and packing up our rackets when Daniele shrieked in pain.

“I must have pulled a muscle,” he whined.

His brother ignored him and Raffaele left in a hurry because he had a date with Marzia.

“Let me take a look,” I said, asking him to show me where it hurt.

It was the left trapezius muscle which had tensed up because of the repetitive effort. He took off his shirt and I gave him a quick massage.

In the twilight, I had missed the figure that was advancing towards us until he spoke.

“Mafalda is serving dinner,” Elio said, “ _Maman_ wanted to know whether you were coming back.”

“Yeah, give me a moment.”

Daniele rolled his left shoulder without grimacing. He thanked me and introduced himself to Elio, who shook his hand and did the same with Stefano’s.

He was doing his best to be gracious, but it was evident that he didn’t want to linger. Stefano picked up his and Daniele’s bag. We chatted briefly about our next game of volley and soon after they were gone.

Elio stalked towards the orchard without waiting for me.

“Hey, what’s the hurry?”

“The spaghetti will get cold,” he muttered.

“Not in this heat.”

I hurried after him, but as we walked among the trees we were in near complete darkness, which is why I didn’t see that he’d stopped and I almost ended up in his arms.

“What were you doing there?” he asked, “Flirting already? That was quick work even for the _Muvi Star_.”

“He pulled a muscle.”

He sniggered.

“Was he tense? Did you tell him that you were about to be a doctor?”

His breath was caressing my lips and it smelled fruity.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no and no. He was sore because he played for too long and didn’t keep hydrated.”

“They seem nice,” he conceded.

“They are. Maybe we could do dancing one of these evenings, all together.”

“Patrice is a great dancer.”

We were standing there like a couple of dogs sniffing each other’s diffidence.

“Good, let’s arrange it then,” I said.

“You can mention it to him. I don’t want him to think that we are planning stuff behind his back.”

I wasn’t too keen on that, but I would do anything to please Elio.

“Okay, as long as he doesn’t tell me I’m too old for Le Danzing.”

He laughed and slapped me on the back. It was a playful gesture, but my body interpreted it as a caress.

“He won’t say that again, I promise.”

“Because I already feel ancient next to you, so he doesn’t need to rub it in.”

I should have stopped talking, but I never quite knew how to keep the conversation casual when I spoke with Elio. The mines were buried in places I would never have dreamed of looking so I stepped on them with the clumsiness of a rookie.

“You are not old,” he argued, “Why do you keep saying it as though it were true?”

“I wasn’t the one who started remarking on my age.”

“But you are the one who’s making a big deal out of it. I never cared about it, it never crossed my mind. I thought we were equals.”

“We were,” I replied, “we are.”

“How old is your fiancée?”

I sighed.

“Twenty-three.”

He didn’t add anything further but resumed walking. I followed him in silence and soon after we reached the garden and its festive atmosphere. There were guests at dinner and Elio and I were sitting far apart, so there were no more conversations between us that evening. I couldn’t bear the thought of being in my room, so I decided that I would sleep in the attic.

In hindsight, that was another bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think Stefano's tale is absurd, it actually happened to the father of a friend of mine. Now my friend's moved out of his home, but for years he and his mother, his father and his gay lover lived all together in the same house, quite happily according to my friend. Miracles do happen :)


	6. Smooth Operator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take an unexpected - and possibly delicious - turn.  
> And the boys talk. They are stubborn as mules but they are slowly getting there. I did mention in the tags that it was a slow burn. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smooth Operator is a song by Sade which was released in 1984

I didn’t tell anyone, but Mafalda probably knew.

Every night, after the household had retired to bed, I left my room and went up to the attic. I couldn’t stand being so close to Elio and Patrice, having to imagine what they were doing and constantly being afraid of hearing a bedspring creak or a heated moan. Elio had been the only one to use the attic, but he no longer cared for it and since Patrice was apparently allergic to dust, I was relatively certain that I’d be left alone.

As the next few days elapsed, the tension between the three of us relaxed a little, mainly because I stayed out of their way.

Patrice had accepted Samuel’s gift and was often to be seen in various spots across the grounds of the villa either sketching or painting.

Elio was usually in his company, playing the guitar, writing or posing for his boyfriend.

In the meantime, Vimini had returned and the cure seemed to have done her good: she had grown both in stature and weight and her cheeks were rosier and plumper. Her mordant wit, however, had not lost any of its sharpness.

One afternoon, as I lay on a sheet in my _heaven_ by the pool, surrounded by my usual paraphernalia, she came to sit next to me, cross-legged and with an impish smile on her lips.

“He was lecturing Elio about Vasari,” she said, “Doesn’t he know what Mr Perlman does for a living?”

“Maybe he was only telling him.”

She dismissed my conciliatory suggestion with a huff.

“Trust me, he wasn’t. Elio couldn’t get a word in.”

Despite my feelings for him, I couldn’t repress a chuckle at the thought of show-off, know-it-all Elio being schooled about an Italian Renaissance artist by a French person.

It was my mistake, I suppose, that I didn’t press her to find out what the argument had been about. In truth, I was taking the cowardly way out, because knowing would be like retracing my steps back to our tentative beginnings; knowing would mean suffering and I was trying to stave it off for as long as I could. 

It was thus that the morning after my exchange with Vimini, while I was debating whether to visit _signora Milani_ or wait until that afternoon, Patrice suddenly accosted me and offered me a cigarette.

We had chit-chatted over meals and said hello when we crossed paths, but he’d never initiated a conversation when there was nobody else but the two of us.

I didn’t want to question him on Elio’s whereabouts, but I guessed that he’d overslept.

“Are you enjoying your holiday?” I asked, as we puffed on his Gitanes.

“ _Ça roule_ ,” he replied, before remembering that I didn’t speak French. “It’s okay.”

He stared into the distance, swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet and scrunched his nose. I noticed that he’d already acquired a nice golden tan so that his hair was even more strikingly silvery by comparison. He was without a doubt a very beautiful young man but I couldn’t tell whether his sort of prettiness would age well; it could blossom or fade: there was no guessing which way it would go.

“Listen,” he said, sounding embarrassed, “I’m sorry about the way I spoke to you at the start. Things were going badly with my family and I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I understand.”

“He’s better now, my _papa,_ ” he said, “He’s finally agreed to go see _un psy_ , a therapist.”

“I’m glad.”

I didn’t know what else to say, considering what had passed between us.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he continued, staring me straight in the eye.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Maybe I should tell you that Elio is not happy about it.”

He giggled, nervously. I had no inkling where this was going.

“He thinks it’s inappropriate and got really angry when I proposed it. But If I want to become a decent painter I have to follow the advice of the greats.”

“Vasari?”

I had succeeded in surprising him.

“ _Oui, c’est bien ça_ ,” he agreed, “I have been reading his book on technique and he insists that one should draw from nature as often as possible.”

“Sounds reasonable,” I said, starting to see a glimmer of light.

“It is very important to correctly reproduce the human body: the muscles and the bones underneath.”

“Of course,” I said, feeling like a cornered mouse.

He cleared his throat and took a long drag from his cigarette.

“Would you pose for me? I need a model with a similar body as those employed by Michelangelo. Vasari says that the best thing is to draw men and women from the nude,” he added, with a dash of effrontery.

I was speechless. After a moment, I said the first thing that came into my muddled head.

“I’ve never done it before. I’m sure I won’t be able to keep still.”

“It’s harder when it’s cold outside, but in this temperature it’s a relief to be without clothes.”

That was the other problem.

“I don’t want to sound prudish, but I don’t usually parade around in my birthday suit.”

He made a perplexed face.

“I’m not a nudist,” I translated.

“ _Bof_ ,” he replied, “Your swimsuits are short and when they are wet, they are very revealing.”

I blushed and was annoyed that I was being brought to such a pass by this slip of a boy.

“That may be the case, but that’s the difference between being dressed and being undressed.”

“We could go to a very private place,” he insisted, “I have been told that there are many around here.”

The idea of posing naked in the same place where I’d first kissed Elio gave me the creeps.

“Why does it have to be me? Elio has plenty of friends and perhaps one of his many relatives might oblige.”

Patrice shook his head with decisiveness.

“I don’t want to waste my time with second best when I can have my first choice. I’m sure you’ve been told before that you look like a Greek statue.”

I shuddered, which made him laugh.

“ _Mais c’est vrai_ , it’s true, so why be modest about it? You have the body, I have the talent: why not join them together?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a striped top I remembered oh so well: Elio was striding towards us. His hair was messy and his face still creased by sleep.

He didn’t greet either of us, but looked at me and bit his lips.

“I told him you’d say no.”

“But he hasn’t,” Patrice interjected.

Elio glared at me.

“I haven’t said yes either. I’m not sure I’d be good at it.”

“That’s your objection to posing nude for my, for him?”

“I never took you for a prude, _mon ange_ ,” the French boy remarked.

I didn’t want to upset the delicate balance we had achieved.

“Why don’t you let me think about it,” I replied, “And in the meantime, you can talk about it without involving me.”

They started talking at once, but I had already turned my back on them, having decided to grab Anchise’s bike to go visit my translator.

 

I was coming out of the post office, when I heard Elio’s voice calling my name.

It was the most vivid of déjà vus. He was wearing the same top and I was carrying my backpack and the Herald Tribune.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, trying not to sound as spooked as I felt.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” he replied.

That did not help.

“Let’s go sit down by the church,” I suggested, wanting to break the spell.

He followed me there and once we’d rested our bikes against the back of the bench, we sat side by side and an odd silence settled upon us.

“It’s not that I mind,” he started, gazing down at his restless hands, “That he will see you naked, because I know that it’s different. It won’t be like it was between us, I understand that. But if you want to, that’s, I couldn’t, not ever,” he scratched the back of his neck and glanced back at me from beneath his lashes. “Do you want to?”

“No, I don’t,” I said, without hesitation. The idea of spoiling what had been precious between us made me nauseous. “I intended to say no straight away, but I didn’t want to disappoint him.”

Elio smiled.

“He has that effect on people, but they soon regret having given in. He's a very smooth operator. It’s like a spell and when they wake up from it, they wonder what made them say yes in the first place.”

I wondered whether he was feeling that way about Patrice, and if the effects of that particular drug had started to wane. I hoped so and didn’t dare allow myself to hope.

“Shall I tell him or will you do the honours?”

He drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

“He will never let it go,” Elio said, “Once he gets an idea in his mind, it’s there to stay.”

“I will be very convincing.”

“Maybe we could find a compromise.”

“I could wear my underpants?”

“Yes, and I could be present,” he added, avoiding my gaze, “You know, to make it less weird for you; unless you mind, of course.”

I didn’t mind in the least, but I still had one objection.

“He told me about finding a secluded place to paint me,” I said, and he immediately caught my inference.

“Not there, no,” he replied, “I would never; it’s not gonna happen, no.”

“Okay then,” I said, smiling. He smiled back and squinted at the sun.

“I’ll tell him that it can’t be for longer than two hours at a time or you’ll start fidgeting.”

“I never fidget,” I pretended to be offended.

“You liar,” he replied, nudging my arm with his shoulder.

We horsed around for a minute or two until we were more at ease with each other than we’d been since I’d returned to Italy.

“Who would have thought that you’d return here a year later and that I’d have a boyfriend who’d want to employ you as a life model?”

We laughed at the absurdity of destiny.

“That sounds pretty insane, when you put it like that.”

“I can see his point though,” he continued, “Your body is a work of art. It deserves to be painted.”

“Look who’s talking,” I countered, “In fact, Patrice should paint you and only you, over and over again. Caravaggio would have been all over you.”

Elio sniggered.

“Quite literally, probably,” he said, “He liked boys.”

 His comment was true and it made me feel uncomfortable.

“There was nothing wrong with that,” he said, sensing the shift in mood, “Times were different and---”

 “And nothing,” I replied, “It’s a matter of consent. If they didn’t give it then there was something very wrong with that.”

“What if the boys enjoyed it? What if they wanted it but didn’t know that they did until they tried?”

A cold shiver ran down my spine.

“Are we still talking about Caravaggio?”

He was chewing the inside of his mouth, which was one of his mannerisms when he was upset or nervous.

“There’s something I never told you,” he whispered, “But maybe we shouldn’t talk of it here.”

“Shall we go inside the church?”

I was joking but he took me seriously and frowned at me.

“What a goose,” I said, regretting it the moment it left my lips. “Sorry,” I added, but he’d already walked away. I thought he’d get on his bike and leave, but he only went as far as the cloister of the old convent, a building which was now being restored and was therefore deserted at that time of day. Under the colonnade, it was cool and shady.

“What is it?”  

“You know the morning after, when you asked me, and I didn’t want to tell you, and then the days passed and I was okay, more than okay, but you said that we should have talked and I shut you down.”

He was barely drawing breath as he spoke and he seemed on the verge of a panic attack.

“Slow down,” I said, and was tempted to reach out but I didn’t trust myself.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured, after a while.

I didn’t want to put pressure on him, so I just waited for him to continue.

“We never really talked, did we? Not of the things that really mattered.”

“That’s not true. I know more about you than I do about either of my parents; the books you’ve read, the poetry and the music you like, the nooks and crannies where you used to hide.”

He smiled, but made a gesture as though all of that were trivial.

“I should have told you that I hated you that morning. And that I wanted you to leave and that I believed that I was done with you,” he said, tucking his hand underneath his chin.

“Do you really think I hadn’t realised that? That’s why I got away from you the second time. I needed you to be sure you really wanted me.”

He was bug-eyed with astonishment.

“You never said anything,” he whispered, “We should have talked,” he added, “and now it’s too late. Too late,” he repeated, and ran out into the sunlight.


	7. Into the Groove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The walls are starting to crumble.
> 
> Elio likes to swear when he's drunk, so mind that one.
> 
> Thanks for your patience; these two are wearing me out too ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Into the Groove - song by Madonna released in 1984
> 
> Ma cosa ho detto che non va = what did I say wrong
> 
> Bambino prodigio = child prodigy

_“Only when I'm dancing can I feel this free_  
_At night I lock the doors, where no one else can see_  
_I'm tired of dancing here all by myself_  
_Tonight I want to dance with someone else”_

I went after him, but he’d been too quick for me. I watched him as he cycled like a maniac down the road and into the distance.

Maybe he was right: it might be too late for us, and if he believed that, I didn’t want to be the one ruining his chances of finding another love.

I’d never been the fatalistic sort; always rational, concrete and two steps ahead, there wasn’t a time when I’d not planned my life as though it were a game of chess.

Elio had changed everything: he was far too precious to be treated like a pawn and too unpredictable for cold calculations.

If things had to shift between us, it would have to happen organically and not because I forced his hand. The comment about Caravaggio and his boy models had hit me harder and deeper that I’d first realised: had I overstepped the line on our first night, and taken my pleasure overlooking his discomfort? Regardless of what had come afterwards, this possibility pricked at my conscience.

I owed him respect and distance, and I intended to give him plenty of both.

 

That afternoon, he and Patrice went to visit an old friend of Elio’s who lived in a nearby village. His family owned a sprawling turreted old house which, according to Annella, looked like a castle. The French boy wanted to draw it and I suspected this newfound interest was Elio’s doing, trying to distract Patrice from the idea of painting me.

As for me, after spending some time in Samuel’s company, helping him catalogue a fresh batch of slides, I was seized by Vimini who wanted me to go for a walk along the river with her.

“I need pebbles from my rock garden,” she said.

I told her I had no idea what that was and she express her incredulity.

“I thought you knew everything.”

“Not about gardens, I don’t.”

She had a capacious bag with her, which would have been too heavy for her small frame once it was filled with rocks. I took it from her and she beamed at me.

“Why didn’t you tell me what Patrice and Elio had been arguing about?”  I asked her, as we scoured the riverbank for smallish, oddly-shaped stones.  

“It wasn’t for me to say.”

“That never stopped you before.”

She giggled.

“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” she said, “Although I wish I’d been there when he told you. Will you do it?”

“Kind of.”

She didn’t ask me to explain; she’d certainly guessed what my caveat had been.

“I bet Elio will stick to you two like fly paper,” she said, chuckling.

It was moments like this that made me wonder whether inside that eleven-year-old girl hid a wiser, ageless creature, temporarily inhabiting Vimini’s frail shell.

“You know him better than I do.”

She tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips.

“I don’t think so.”

I avoided her eyes and felt myself blush. She always had a way of piercing right through me with her gaze.

“Remember when you told me you believed he didn’t like you as much as you did him?”

I nodded.

“Maybe what was right has become wrong.”

“You sound like a character from Alice in Wonderland.”

She laughed, pinching my arm. She was back to being a child again.

“I wish I could go through the looking glass,” she said.

“That would be a great way of escaping reality,” I agreed.

A few hours flew by and before I knew it, the bag was full and Vimini had to return home. I accompanied her up to the gates of her villa and shook hands with her father, who was about to come looking for her. We’d met the previous year and he invited me in for the _aperitivo_ , but I was sweaty and dusty and in need of a shower. I gave him the bag and promised that I’d be back another time.

 

On my way back, I bumped into Raffaele and Marzia. They were walking their bicycles and explained that they’d come across Elio and Patrice and invited them to Le Danzing that night.

“You should come too,” the young man said.

Raffaele Vezzani was two years older than Elio and since the previous year had acquired a muscled body and grown a few inches in height. His auburn hair, which had been long and floppy, had been cut short at the back and sides, but he had kept it long on top so that he was constantly tugging strands of it behind his ears. It was an oddly endearing gesture, a throwback to his younger self. Marzia was obviously crazy about him, judging by the caressing looks she was casting at him when she thought I wasn’t looking.

“Yes, please Oliver, we want to see you dance again,” she concurred, smiling.

“You put on quite a show last summer,” her boyfriend added.

They were laughing at me, but I knew that they meant it kindly.

“When I dance, I forget everything; it’s just me and the music.”

“You, the music and Chiara,” Raffaele argued, elbowing me in the ribs.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Man, you did nothing wrong.”

Marzia was silent.

“I was looking at Elio that evening,” she said, after a few beats, “And I couldn’t tell if he hated you or wanted to be in your shoes.”

“I know what I was thinking,” Raffaele said, to provoke her into a mock-fight. They pushed each other around for a bit and nearly ended up in a ditch, bikes and all. After they’d kissed and made up, we resumed our conversation.

“I don’t think he really knew himself,” she said, referring to her previous comment. “With Patrice, it’s easier. There are no mysteries to decode.”

“Must be a bit boring,” Raffaele said, and Marzia gave him a dirty look.

“ _Ma cosa ho detto che non va_?” he huffed, “Elio is very clever, we’ve always teased him about it. _Bambino prodigio_ , that’s what some of us used to call him.”

“Patrice is not stupid either,” she said.

I felt like I shouldn’t have been there, but Raffaele continued, undeterred. He had the typical Italian way of ignoring formal barriers and saying what was on his mind, gesticulating with his hands to better make a point.

“I don’t know Patrice too well, but he seems like Elio used to be when he was younger. It’s like Elio was looking for a copy of himself, you see?”

I didn’t see.

“Okay, pretend for a moment that you are Elio and you’ve been dumped by someone you cared about a lot. What would you do?  I tell you what. You’d find someone who’s in a worse situation and treat him like you wish you’d been treated yourself.”

Marzia looked at him, wide-eyed.

“I didn’t know you were so observant,” she marvelled.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s because you only like me for my body,” he said, winking at me.

“Who said I liked you?” she joked.

We had reached the point where our paths diverged, so I said my usual “later” and hurried back to the villa.

 

Le Danzing was basically unchanged, aside from the addition of a few more tables and chairs.

The crowd was the usual mixture of teenagers and slightly older people, some of whom I remembered from the previous summer.

I got there later than Elio and Patrice. I’d heard them getting ready while I was taking a shower, and had waited to come out of the bathroom until I’d heard their door being clicked shut.

“I’ve never seen you in jeans,” Stefano commented, as soon as he caught sight of me. “I feel underdressed, all of a sudden.”

He was wearing baggy shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. His blue-black hair, which he usually didn’t bother combing, was styled with wet-look gel.

His brother was chatting with a blonde girl I didn’t know; next to her a brunette was clearly waiting for Stefano to pay her some attention.

He introduced me to both and we talked for a while, until I proposed to go buy a round of drinks.

I was paying the tab when I heard a collective gasp coming from the behind me. I turned round, holding three bottles of beer in one hand and two in the other, and managed not to let them fall to the ground.

The song that was playing was Madonna’s Into the Groove. On the dance-floor, Elio and Patrice were putting on a show. Both dressed in skin-tight trousers and t-shirts, their beautiful hair in splendid contrast as they shimmied and swayed, elegant and sinuous like shimmering snakes. I was hypnotised by the perfect synchronism of their lithe bodies and by the electric charge that bounced off them.

When the song petered out, some clapped their hands and others wolf-whistled.

I returned to the Adornis’ table and set the beers down.

“Did you see that?” the brunette – her name was Lara- asked.

“Great, aren’t they?” I replied, hoping that my poker face wouldn’t fail me.

“Yeah, but they should be more careful,” said the blonde, whose name was Orietta. “There are still many people here who don’t like gays.”

“They were only dancing,” said Daniele.

Stefano looked at me, but said nothing.

We started chatting about music and the usual things one discusses with new acquaintances, when we were joined by Marzia and Raffaele.

“Come on,” the latter said, patting my shoulder, “this, if I am not mistaken, is your song.”

And true enough, the first bars of Love My Way resonated in the air.

I took a long swig from my bottle and before I knew it, I was lost to the mindless pleasure of music. I didn’t care how clumsy I looked or whether I wasn’t moving in time with the beat; all I wanted was to feel unfettered, free. After a while, I looked around and met Elio’s eyes. He was gazing at me and at Stefano, who was dancing close to me. I ignored him, not wanting to prick the happy bubble I’d just stepped in.

There were more songs and more beers, but I always strived to keep away from Elio and Patrice, only saying hello and smiling in their direction once or twice.

Later, someone suggested a swim in the pond and I went along with it, because I didn’t want the night to end there.

“I don’t have a swimsuit on,” I said, when we reached the clearing beyond the trees.

Lara laughed and Orietta went up on her tiptoes to tousle my hair.

“You can swim in your underwear,” she said, “Or naked.”

She made clear which option she preferred.

I took off my clothes, but kept my underpants on. They were black boxer shorts, so they would keep me decent.

Stefano stayed back and waited for me.

“It can be tricky in the dark, unless you’ve done it before,” he said, guiding me towards the water. He was completely naked and, for some reason, it unsettled me. It was because of this strange unease that after a short while I decided to head back. When they shouted for me, I told them I didn’t feel too well, that I’d drunk too much and I needed to be home, in my bed.

 

I pissed in the downstairs bathroom and brushed my teeth with one of the unused toothbrushes and, after taking a bottle of water from the fridge, went straight to the attic. I didn’t have the stomach to risk finding out the sort of gymnastics taking place in Elio’s bedroom that night.

As soon as I shut and bolted the door behind me, I felt as though the strings that had held me together had frayed beyond repair.

With trembling fingers, I took a cigarette from the pack and lit it up on the third attempt. It had been a long day yet I was not tired. On the contrary, I was too wired up to sleep, desiring something that I knew I couldn’t have and wanting it so badly my skin itched with the craving. I looked outside the window and was tempted to howl at the sliver of moon that shone silvery in the star-dotted sky. It took me two more cigarettes and a litre of chilled water to calm down. I was ready for bed when I heard a noise and a string of muttered curses coming from outside the door.

I withdrew the bolt and Elio nearly stumbled and fell at my feet.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he hissed.

Even without smelling his breath, I could tell that he was inebriated.

His tone went straight to my nerves.

“I could say the same to you, lover boy.”

“Can’t be alone anywhere in this fucking place,” he snarled.

He looked around and took in the situation.

“You sleeping here?” he murmured.

“Yes, why, is that a crime?”

“What’s the problem with your room?”

“It gets too hot in there, sometimes,” I lied, “What’s your excuse?”

Predictably, I didn’t get a straight answer.

“Where did you all disappear to?”

“We went for a swim.”

He threw me a lewd glance.

“Skinny dipping?” he said, silkily, “I bet Stefano Adorni couldn’t wait for that.”

At that, my annoyance morphed into rage.

“He’s not the only one, is he? Patrice seemed rather keen too.”

Elio walked up to me, looking daggers and gritting his teeth.

“You keep him out of this... this game,” he spat the word out, “that you are playing.”

“Believe me, kid, if I were playing a game, you wouldn’t be the one to win.”

His nostrils flared and he was glowing with fury.

“Don’t you dare call me a kid,” he growled.

“Stop behaving like one.”

His hand shot up and stopped a few inches from my face.

“Go ahead, slap me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Why not, if that’s what you want,” I challenged him, taking a step forward.

All of a sudden, the balance of power tilted the other way.

Instead of hitting me, Elio knotted his fingers in the hair at the back of my head and tugged. I was hard in a second.

“You fucking liar,” he murmured, and crushed his mouth against mine.


	8. Of Crime and Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take another unexpected turn.  
> I apologise in advance. I am truly sorry.
> 
> It will get better, I promise you. Much much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of Crime and Passion = Duran Duran, 1983
> 
> Once again, your support is overwhelming. This fandom is truly precious. We are so lucky.

_“Liar-couldn't cut me deeper with a knife if you tried_  
_Just take a look before you run off and hide”_

He tasted of beer and smelled of sweat and that unique teenage musk which had never failed to melt my senses. At first I kissed him back, because I’d missed him so badly; his tongue and the velvet of his skin; in a last ditch attempt at retaining a hold of my sanity, I angled my lower body away from him, even as he tried to grind his crotch into mine.

“Damn,” he cursed, his fingers digging into my ass. His lips were hard, they hadn’t softened like they used to.

“Stop, Elio, please, stop,” I pleaded, and as quickly as he’d pounced, he moved away. I turned my back on him and willed my arousal away.

He let out a stream of profanities and then a hiccuping noise which could have been laughter or the complete opposite of it.

I had to make sure.

When I looked at him, he was scrubbing his hands across his face with frantic energy. His lips were twitching and his eyes glittering.

“Just my fucking luck,” he muttered, in between bitter cackles. “Maybe I should go back to dating women, what do you think? Wait, of course you would approve, stupid me.”

I went from horny to confused in no time.

“What are you talking about? You have a boyfriend.”

He stifled a belch in the palm of his hand.

“Too much beer,” he explained.

“Yeah, I’d offer you water, but I drank the whole bottle.”

That was the last straw: he slumped down on a rickety chair and burst into tears.

I didn’t know what to do: I wanted to hold him but was afraid we’d go back to kissing and from there to intimacy. I wasn’t sure I could stop a second time.

In the end, I kneeled down in front of him and petted his hair, waiting for the crisis to pass.

“I’m such an idiot,” he whispered, sniffling.

I kept a roll of paper towels by the mattress; I reached out for it and handed it to him. After he’d wiped his nose and cheeks, he seemed deflated.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” I said, “We’ll just pretend this never happened.”

His features cycled through a multitude of emotions, settling on contempt.

“And I you call me a kid,” he sneered, “At least I’m not a bloody coward.”

“What good can come of letting you do something you’ll regret when you are sober again?”

Elio jumped to his feet so suddenly that I reeled back and lost my balance, landing on my ass with a loud thump.

We laughed, letting some of the tension ebb away like poison sucked from a viper’s bite.

“I thought that it stank of Marlboros in here,” he said, eyeing the overflowing ashtray.

“You are one to talk,” I countered, “You smell like a brewery.”

This time he didn’t repress a loud burp. I smirked and threw him my half-empty pack of cigarettes. He lit one and silently asked me whether I wanted one too, but I declined. We sat on a pile of old cushions and for a while nothing was said.

“I just have to talk to someone about this or I will go crazy,” he said, after he’d smoked and disposed of the scorched filter.

“What about your father?” I said, fearing the worst while at the same time desperate to know what was going on. “Samuel is wiser than me and he would never break your trust.”

“And you would?” he cast me a sideways look which I couldn’t read, sidetracked as I was by the flutter of his lashes.

“No, but that’s not the point.”

“And what is the point?”

“Like I said, you’d regret it tomorrow.”

“Today, you mean.”

It must have been at least 1am, which again begged the question: what was Elio doing in the attic in the dead of night? And of course Elio read my mind and went ahead with his confession in that halting, rambling way of his.

“You and the others were gone and I thought, hell, I will take Patrice home and this time it will be different; because, have you seen him dancing? Have you?”

I nodded.

“What do they say about dancing and sex?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer so I stayed silent.

“You of all people will appreciate the irony,” he sneered.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a philosopher and he’s a great fan of Plato.”

The penny had dropped. I felt both immensely relieved and puzzled.

“Has he always been that way or is it because of his recent problems with his family?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, looking so vulnerable it made my chest ache. “I tried to ask him once, but he made me feel as though I was some kind of pervert; that I shouldn’t insist and if I loved him, I’d wait until he was ready.”

I was not gonna probe him about the love side of the equation.

“Is he interested in girls too?”

“Maybe, but I’m not sure,” he sighed, “By the way he moved on that dance-floor, everybody will think we’d be at it like animals.”

I cringed.

“You thought so, didn’t you?”

He didn’t wait for my reply, “So, anyway, I was going insane and needed to get it out of my system.”

“You came here to jack off? What’s wrong with the bathroom?”

“I could have been overheard.”

“Sure, okay.”

“And this place is filled with great memories.”

I couldn’t stand to hear any more.

“I’m sorry about your-” I didn’t know what to call it, “But you won’t solve it by talking to me or anybody else. Patrice is the only one who can help you.”

Elio gazed at me, biting down on his lower lip.

“Maybe and maybe not,” he said, “What if I asked you to be my, you know? We’d be friends who have sex, no strings attached.”

I had never been so angry in my entire life. Once, when I was thirteen, my father had thrown one of my books into the fire to prove a point. That was when I’d decided I’d never ask for his financial help as soon as I was going to be old enough to support myself. That was the only other time I’d felt nearly as furious as I was now.

“Get out of here,” I said, surprised at how calm I sounded.

“Why are you so upset,” he said, sweet as honey, “I saw the way Adorni looks at you and you don’t seem to mind. Maybe I should ask him.”

I was a misplaced word away from slapping him, and later I wondered if he hadn’t spoken that way on purpose, in order to provoke me.

“Do what you like,” I gritted out, “Just don’t ever let me find out.”

“I’m not one of your students,” he spat back, “You can’t tell me what to do.”

I grabbed him by the arm and, making sure I wasn’t hurting him, I marched him out the door. I heard him protest, but I didn’t care. Once the door was securely bolted, I rummaged into my toilet bag in search of my Xanax. I took two pills and swallowed them dry. Ten minutes later, I went to sleep, hoping that I’d forget everything Elio had just said and done.

 

I woke up with a mouth that felt like gravel and a pounding headache. The sun was high in the cloudless sky and when I finally looked at my watch I wasn’t surprised to see that it was almost noon.

I took a long, cold shower which restored me enough to face the rest of the day. I went back to my room to change and shivered when I walked past Elio’s door.

Downstairs, Mafalda had saved me a couple of eggs and a jug of apricot juice. I told her I didn’t feel all that great and she toasted some bread and slathered it with marmalade.

“ _Va meglio ora?_ ” she asked, doting on me as if I were a sick child.

Better now? The memory hit me in the solar plexus and it took all my willpower not to heave.

“ _Grazie tante_ ,” I replied, and after having accepted a pat on the head like a well-behaved dog, I decided that I would go lie down in the shade with a book, waiting for the worst of my symptoms to subside. I’d have given anything to delete the scene of the previous night, but it was bound to remain etched in my brain for years to come.

 

I didn’t want to read one of my scholarly volumes, so I went into Samuel’s study to find something suited to my mood.

He was there, poring over a stack of papers. One look at me and he was frowning.

“You  are very pale,” he said, “I heard you all went dancing last night.”

“Yeah, and we went for a swim after that. Maybe it wasn’t such a sensible idea.”

He smiled, adjusting his glasses that had slid down the bridge of his nose.

“But you had fun, I hope.”

“Hmm,” I smiled.

“Elio was there too,” he continued, watching me intently, “Did you talk to him?”

“A little,” I replied, plucking a hard back novel from the shelf in front of me.

It was Bowen’s Eva Trout. I’d picked it because I liked the author but I had not read this particular book.

Samuel glanced at the cover then at me and cleared his throat.

“Interesting choice,” he said, and I when he realised I had no idea what he was talking about, he proceeded to explain that the protagonist falls in love with a much younger man whom she had known as a child of twelve when she was twenty-four.

I slid the book back into its place then selected a collection of short stories by Hemingway: safer ground for sure.

He didn’t comment; in fact, he seemed to steer the conversation into calmer waters. We talked of Empedocles and the eternal return, of _amor fati_ and of Nietzsche. He agreed that I should work part of it into the conclusions of my book; it was only later, while I was half-heartedly leafing through The Snows of Kilimanjaro that I saw that he’d not digressed as wildly as I’d first believed.

Samuel’s unspoken suggestion was that I should do my best to endure what I’d set in motion, and that no solution was possible until one broke the chains of eternal repetition.

 

I dozed off under a willow tree by the pond and was awakened by the shrieks of a group of boys and girls.

Marzia came up to me, carrying a glass bottle of lemonade. She handed it to me. I thanked her and drank avidly.

“You okay?” she enquired, sitting down by my side. I didn’t have it in me to lie.

“Not really.”

“You left quite abruptly last night. Was it because of Elio and Patrice?”

“No, I just didn’t... I needed to be alone. It happens, sometimes, even to me,” I smiled.

She played with the straps of her sandals and I drew patterns on the glass.

“I saw Patrice earlier,” she said, “He was going back to the old castle, but Elio wasn’t with him. I asked him about Elio and he told me he was composing so he wanted to be alone.”

I scanned the small crowd in the distance.

“Is Stefano with you?”

“Yes, he’s playing cards with Raffaele. Why?” she asked, darting me a bemused look.

“Nothing,” I said, hoping my relief wasn’t evident, “I only wanted to say hello.”

“They are over there,” she indicated a spot under a clump of trees.

I followed her there and was greeted with great warmth by the entire group, which also consisted of Daniele, Lara and Orietta.

“Here you are, Sleeping Beauty,” the latter said, pinching my cheek.

Stefano smiled and narrowed his eyes at me.

“He’s as green as the grass,” he said.

Lara brushed her hand through it. “It’s more yellow than green.”

“Oliver too,” said Daniele, and everybody laughed, including me. I was itching to go looking for Elio, but I didn’t want to make it too obvious to Marzia.

I stayed on for an endless game of _scala quaranta_ which terminated when it was almost dinner time. It gave me the perfect excuse, but I don’t think I fooled her one bit.

 

The bike was where I’d left it and I was already on my way to Elio’s secret spot when I saw him with Vimini. They were walking back from wherever they'd been and she was carrying a bowl filled with wild strawberries. He had his hand on her shoulder and she was gazing up at him from time to time, as if to make sure that he was alright.

“Elio took me to the enchanted wood,” she exclaimed.

“It’s not really enchanted,” he argued.

“It’s the only place here where you can find these,” she told me, “And they grow even in the autumn.”

“Only if it’s mild,” Elio said, but she wouldn’t be deterred.

“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for it, but I don’t care,” she said, “I prefer to believe my own story. It doesn’t hurt anybody.”

Poor Vimini didn’t know how involuntarily loaded her statement was.

We accompanied her home then headed to the villa.

He was the first to break the silence.

“I didn’t mean any of it,” he said, without looking at me, “I was too drunk to know what I was doing.”

“Are things okay with Patrice?”

“Never been better,” he replied, “He couldn’t wait to go back to his drawings and I had an idea about a composition.”

“Good,” I hardly knew what I was saying.

“Dad said you were sick.”

“After taking sleeping pills, I often get an upset stomach.”

It wasn’t a total lie.

“You take sleeping pills? It wasn’t because of me, was it?”

I was having another déjà vu.

“No, well, maybe, but I was wired already, so no, not your fault.”

“You were right,” he said, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’ll pretend you never did.”

He grimaced.

“Look, I didn’t mean it, about Stefano,” he continued, lowering his voice, “I wouldn’t. And besides, he likes you not me.”

“We are just friends.”

“Isn’t what lovers always are at first?” he argued, and he couldn’t have cut me deeper with a knife.


	9. Shadows of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk, my babies, talk. And flirt.  
> Patrice is being his usual annoying self.  
> Elio and Oliver are getting closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shadows of the Night = Pat Benatar 1982

_"Surrender all your dreams to me tonight_  
_They'll come true in the end"_

Elio was daring. His acts of bravery had caught me by surprise because they’d materialised out of nowhere, as though he’d been conducting a long conversation with himself before hitting me with the punch line.

He had been the one who pushed the boundaries of our intimacy and I’d said yes to everything, stunned that he’d picked the very same acts I’d always wanted to try without having been aware of it.

We hadn’t talked about it; I’d never told him how he’d enchanted and enslaved me. I’d given him my name and taken his, but I’d not matched his courage.

I imagined telling him the truth, laying my heart at his feet, waiting for his response; a boy of eighteen, with his wild university years still ahead of him, shackled to a man who was speaking of love in tongues, using ersatz poetry in lieu of sincerity. If Patrice wasn’t the right one, I was the wrong one, the one who had tried and failed.

 

At dinner that night we were joined by an Italian couple from Bologna, whose accents and expansive manners reminded me of Fellini movies.

The woman, Teresa, had her heavy chestnut hair piled up on her head and a rounded, shiny face with two spots of rouge on her cheekbones while her partner, Valerio, was lanky and sour-faced, as though he suffered from dyspepsia.

He worked for the regional newspaper and she had been a militant communist until she’d grown out of it.

We discussed politics for a while, but Teresa had a way of faking a yawn every time Valerio uttered the name of a politician that soon got on his nerves and forced a change of subject.

Elio and I swapped amused glances and had to look away after a while to avoid bursting into laughter.

Patrice wasn’t there, but he’d warned Elio he might be late.

When Mafalda brought the ice-cream, the conversation drifted to the topic of youth.

“Our culture is obsessed with youth,” Valerio said, eyeing me with disapproval. I judged that he was in his late thirties and that he disliked Americans, like many left-wing Italians did. “Look at our TV programmes: we used to have great classic dramas and now we are infested with stupid comedies with pre-recorded laughter.”

“It’s only going to get worse,” Samuel said, smiling, “Better get used to it.”

Teresa chuckled.

“He’ll never do that. He’s a fighter of lost causes.”

“I agree with him,” I said, sensing Valerio’s surprised reaction, “It’s the same for literature and food. We consume them faster, we don’t savour them, we quickly forget: easy come, easy go.”

“And whose fault is that?” Valerio asked.

I conceded the point, which seemed to pacify him.

“I don’t see what’s so great about being young,” Elio muttered, making his parents and Teresa laugh. “No one ever takes us seriously.”

“That’s not true,” Samuel intervened, “But at your age it is advisable to listen more and speak less.”

Annella looked at her son and smiled.

“But you can always express yourself through your music,” she concluded, softly.

The Italian couple didn’t know that Elio played the piano and he was, as it often happened, cajoled into performing. He wasn’t too keen, but he said yes after we insisted a little.

We were about to adjourn to the living room, when Patrice arrived. He was tanned and his hair was a like a flaxen halo around his face. He seemed happy and more effusive than usual. He stood behind Elio and tousled his hair, before introducing himself to the guests.

Teresa was curious about his art and he promised to show her something later. She had studied French at school, so the two of them and Elio started a conversation which I was unable to follow.

Valerio glanced at them and then at me, and he shrugged.

“She makes me feel old sometimes,” he said. I couldn’t guess Teresa’s age, but she didn’t seem much younger than her partner.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I replied.

“If you are old then we must be ancient,” laughed Annella.

“You, my dear, are only growing more beautiful as time goes by,” Samuel said, kissing her hand.

This is what it must feel like, I thought, to grow up surrounded by love.

 

Teresa was in raptures.

“ _Ma sono fantastici_ ,” she enthused, as she admired Patrice’s slim portfolio,“The lines remind me of Schiele and the poses of Balthus.”

Valerio explained that a friend of theirs owned a small gallery and that Teresa helped her run it. I started to suspect that perhaps they had been invited for a reason.

Patrice was ecstatic: the comparison was flattering as she had chosen artists he deeply admired. Elio, who was sitting close to him on the sofa, was delighted; he kept glancing at me, whether to seek my approval or to defy my scorn, I couldn’t say.

I wasn’t an expert but I liked what I saw, especially because some of them depicted Elio’s beautiful face and body; I thought Patrice had talent and vision.

“Tomorrow, I’d like to draw Oliver,” he said, turning towards me. He casually draped one arm around Elio’s shoulder, in a proprietary manner.

“Sure, why not,” I replied, admiring his tactics. We were in the company of strangers and it would have been embarrassing for me to say no in those circumstances.

Valerio was talking to Annella, while Samuel had gone to fetch the liquors and glasses.

After the drinks were served, Elio was reminded that he’d promised to play for us.

He flexed his fingers, tucked some stray curls behind his ears and scrunched his nose. By the quirk of his lips and the tilt of his head, I knew what he’d chosen before he started to play it.

It was Busoni’s transcription of Bach’s Chaconne: if was a devilishly impervious piece which required inhuman levels of dexterity.

We were all spellbound and I couldn’t take my eyes off Elio: his fingers, the slope of his back, the myriad emotions traversing his face.

Midway into it, I was distracted by a faint noise and when I searched for the source of it, I was stunned to find out that Patrice and Teresa were whispering to one another. Her gestures indicated that they were still discussing his drawings; she caught my eye and immediately fell silent.

I saved my anger for later, choosing to focus my attention on Elio’s virtuoso performance. It was breathtaking and I couldn’t believe anyone could be distracted in the presence of such mastery. At the end of it, we cheered and clapped, while he stretched his arms and legs.

“Sorry about before,” Patrice said, moving closer to me, “Teresa wants to display one of my works in her friend’s gallery. They have an exhibition of young European artists opening in October and she’s curious to see what I will do with your portrait.”

I gazed at Elio, who was being congratulated by his parents and their guests, and felt angry and tired.

“You could have waited ten minutes,” I argued.

“I have heard that Bach piece before,” he shrugged, “I prefer the original version." I had protested with Elio in the same vein the previous summer yet now I couldn’t stand the criticism levelled at him.

“That doesn’t mean you had to spoil it for us and for him.”

“He didn’t even notice.”

Elio joined us, “What’s going on guys?” he asked, with a tight smile.

“I was just telling Oliver how wonderful you were,” Patrice kissed him soundly on the lips, “I’m so proud of you.”

I didn’t wait to hear the rest of it; I made my excuses, pleading exhaustion – which was not really a lie – said goodnight and headed up to my room. I was too worn out to worry about Elio and Patrice and whatever they got up to in bed. I fell asleep as soon as my cheek touched the pillow.

I woke up in the middle of night covered in sweat and with my hearts beating like a drum. I’d had a nightmare, but I couldn’t recall the specifics of it; only that I’d been running from something horrible and there had been no way out.

I was thirsty and needed a breath of fresh air, so I put on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, grabbed my cigarettes and lighter, and made my way downstairs.

Nothing’s more soulful than a summer night in the Italian countryside. There was a slice of moon and the crickets were chirping.  I gently sucked on my cigarette, as though any sudden movement could shatter the quiet. I walked towards the orchard and stopped by the pool, sitting down at the edge of it. I was still slightly shaken by the memory of the nightmare, but in my ears was the Chaconne that Elio had played. I started to hum it and it had a calming effect on my jangled nerves.

I looked up at the windows of the villa and for a moment, I thought I saw the flicker of a light and a moving shadow. I wasn’t sure, but I waited, hoping for a repetition of our second night together, when Elio had come to look for me.

I wasn’t disappointed.

“Are you okay?” he asked, swaying on his feet, as he usually did when he was nervous.

“I had a nightmare and I was thirsty,” I replied, keeping my voice low. I didn’t ask why he was there; I handed him the reins of the conversation.

“I heard you leave,” he said, “I thought you’d gone up to the attic, but the back door creaks, and then I saw the flare of your cigarette.”

Again, I stayed silent.

“I wanted to apologise about last night.” He sat not far from the place where he’d once stood as he'd read a typewritten passage of my book.

“You already have.”

“I lied,” he continued, “I’d never do that, with Stefano, I mean.”

“We are just friends, I told you.”

He nodded several times.

“Yeah, and I believe you,” he murmured, “But I think he likes you and he’s handsome.”

I looked at him, with his oversized sweater and faded denim shorts; with his messy curls and golden eyes. I thought about Patrice’s egotism and I wondered whether his abstinence was only one facet of his narcissism.

“I don’t care about that.”

He snorted.

“Of course you don’t. You look like a statue by Praxiteles.”

“Did you want me because of the way I looked?”

“Maybe at the start, yes,” he admitted, “I liked the fact that you towered over me.”

Patrice was short and slight.

“The tables have turned,” I said.

He bit his lips and seemed on the verge of saying something. When he did, I wished he’d stayed silent.

“Sometimes I feel that if I could only touch him in the right way, if I said the right thing, he would open up to me.”

“Like you did with me?”

He nodded. I swallowed my bitterness and the temptation to confess the truth about Lucy.

“Maybe he only needs time.”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “He’s so perceptive when it comes to his art, but with me,” he shook his head. “He’s affectionate and, you know, likes to be kissed and touched,” I tried not to cringe, “Maybe I’m not, I mean, not desirable enough.”

I resisted the impulse to laugh hysterically.

“I’m sure that’s not it.”

“Chiara used to tease me when we were younger,” he said, “Because my waist was tinier than hers.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your waist.”

“You would say that.”

I smiled at him.

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

“Maybe,” he grinned.

“You shouldn’t need to change the way you look in order to please the person you love.”

“That’s very wise of you, Professor.”

I felt a secret thrill at being called that.

“Some of your wisdom must have rubbed off on me, Perlman.”

His thigh was warm against mine.

“I love the night time here,” he whispered, after a while. “In Milan, it’s always too noisy and bright.”

“Perhaps I’ll just fetch the mattress and sleep under the stars,” I said.

“Not a bad idea.”

“I’d do it for real, but I don’t want to be in Anchise’s way.”

“He wouldn’t mind. Do you still sleep naked?”

“When it’s hot, yeah,” I replied, lowering my voice.

“You might give Mafalda a shock,” he giggled, and I basked in the joy it gave me.

“She’ll never help cut my soft boiled eggs open again.”

He laughed some more and when he yawned, I suggested we called it a night.

We had been - I realised when I was back in bed ten or so minutes later - flirting.


	10. Electric Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oliver has had enough of being coy.
> 
> Annella knows what's going on, because, let's face it, she always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Electric Dreams - Human League 1984
> 
> afa = stifling heat
> 
> en bateau = boating
> 
> Thanks again for being so lovely and amazing and for trusting me with these two characters we all love so much...

_"Because the friendship that you gave_   
_Has taught me to be brave_   
_No matter where I go, I'll never find a better prize"_

That night I slept better than I had in a long time and I woke up with a clear mind and an entire chapter of my book ready to be written.

The aroma of freshly made espresso was wafting through the house and a light breeze provided some welcome respite after the relentless _afa_ of the last few days.

I ran down the stairs combing my wet hair with my fingers and nearly bumped into Patrice who was going the opposite way.

“You still okay for today?” he asked, without any other form of greeting.

I was getting used to his abruptness, but I didn’t like it any better.

“If you insist,” I replied, “But not this morning. I have to work on my book while the words are still fresh in my head.”

His face lit up, turning his already considerable beauty from algid to engaging,

“Being inspired is the best feeling ever,” he said, “Nothing comes close to it.”

I could think of a number of things which surpassed it, but I wasn’t going to contradict him.

“What about late afternoon?” he enquired, “I could set everything up inside that empty cottage close to the bike shed.”

“Sounds fine,” I replied, and we went our separate ways.

 

Elio and Annella were sitting at the breakfast table, while Samuel – she informed me – had driven Teresa and Valerio to Linate and would be back in the afternoon.

I had hoped I could use his study in order to work undisturbed, but it didn’t seem right to be in there without his permission.

I said as much to Annella, who dismissed my doubts with an incredulous expression: “Don’t be silly, _tesoro_. Sammy would be very upset to hear you say that,” she chided me.

“I thought you preferred to work outside,” Elio interjected, looking down at his bread and Nutella.

“I don’t want to be in the way,” I replied, “In case you want to invite your friends here for a dip in the pool.”

“What friends are you talking about?”

Mafalda brought my soft-boiled egg and removed the top for me, while Elio stared at her with a frown between his eyes. I thanked her and she patted my shoulder.

“The ones from the old castle,” I said, “You were speaking of them at dinner last night.”

Mattia and Flavia Malinverni had been away with their family the previous summer, so I had never met them. He was Elio’s age while she was three years older.

“I’m not sure they’ll come,” he said, “Flavia is studying for an exam; law, something to do with comparative jurisprudence.”

“I have no idea, but it sounds demanding,” I commented, and Annella smiled at the two of us. She had a way of making everything seem easy and problem-free; in her presence, I almost believed that there would be a happy ending to my story.

“I wish you’d come see their house,” he said, “It’s so amazing.”

“Well, I have seen the drawings.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Without saying anything, Annella left us. She ruffled her son’s hair and touched my hand.

“You never showed it to me last year,” I argued. I was being petty, but since he was insisting, I didn’t see why he should get the last word.

“The house was shut,” he explained, “I didn’t want to trespass. And you wouldn’t have come anyway. You’d have said ‘later’ and ignored me.”

“Don’t be an ass,” I smiled, “I meant after, not before.”

He batted his long lashes at me.

“After what?” he asked, fake-innocent.

I badly wanted to kiss the smirk from his mouth.

“Eat your Nutella, kid,” I said, instead.

“I told you not to call me that,” he muttered, his lips and chin smeared with chocolate.

“Here,” I said, wiping him clean with a paper napkin.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile in them, too.

We went on eating in companionable silence until Patrice joined us.

“Mattia called,” he said, “They want to go _en bateau_ on the river.”

Elio looked at me then at his boyfriend.

“Oliver told me he’s busy this morning.”

“When?” I grinned at Elio’s obvious irritation at being left out of the loop.

Patrice related the conversation we’d had on the stairs.

“Maybe I can invite Marzia and Raffaele,” Elio said, and as they made plans, I poured myself another cup of espresso.

“I better get to work,” I said, “Enjoy your _gita_ and see you later.”

“Around five?” asked Patrice. I said yes, delighting in Elio’s disgruntled expression.

 

I was on fire that day: every sentence poured from me like water from a fountain; usually, I needed to double and triple-check my quotes and references, but not this time. I was in my element: surrounded by books and notes, in the midst of creative chaos. Only one thing would make it perfect: Elio, sitting at the other desk, chewing on the end of his pencil, as he transcribed music, humming along and glancing up at me from time to time.

The vision hit me with the power of intense yearning: that was what I wanted, with absolute certainty.

I could never stand having people around while I was writing, but it was different when it came to Elio. He had thought I’d wanted company, last summer, when it was his presence only that I’d craved.

I wondered if that was the same for him; whether he too had enjoyed composing while I was there or if I had just been a hindrance.

Mafalda brought me sandwiches and apricot juice and, after lunch, I smoked a cigarette with Annella, outside, while Anchise plucked the ripest peaches and placed them in a basket.

“Patrice is like Elio in many ways,” she said, “Bright, talented and in need of a firm hand.”

I was surprised at first and didn’t quite know what to say.

“Elio is more mature, I think,” was my feeble reply.

She blew out a thin stream of smoke and seemed to ponder.

“He is and he isn’t. When he admires somebody, he loves to antagonise them. He did the same with Sammy for a while, but they understood each other pretty quickly.”

“He doesn’t do that with Patrice,” I observed.

“No, he doesn’t,” she agreed, casting me one of her knowing glances.

I couldn’t help the blush that spread from my neck up to my cheeks.

“ _Tesoro_ ,” she said, sweetly, “Sammy and I will never interfere, but you know how much we love you.”

I nodded, unable to speak. She squeezed my arm and went to help Anchise, while I returned to my writing.

 

When Elio and Patrice returned, I was cooling off in the pool. Instead of my usual pair of swimming trunks, I was wearing my black Speedo. I figured that it would work as well as a pair of underpants, with the added bonus of being made of a less revealing material.

“You guys had fun?” I asked, admiring Elio’s sun-burnt nose and his messy hair.

Patrice was eager to reply.

“Flavia brought champagne,” he said, “Proper French one, none of that horrid _spumante_ Elio made me drink once.”

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” his boyfriend replied, pinching his arm.

“It was worse than bad, it tasted of cat piss.”

“You can’t possibly know that,” I said, and they both laughed.

“I have a marvellous idea for a pose,” the blond boy said, gazing at my upper body, “Pity that you are so hairy.”

“I’m not shaving it off for art’s sake.”

“And if I asked you to?”

He was trying to charm me and I had to admit that, if I hadn’t been hopelessly gone on the boy at his side, it might have worked.

“No, sorry, won’t do,” I replied, smiling.

He shrugged and asked if I could meet him at the cottage in thirty minutes, which I agreed to.

Elio let him go and after a few beats of silence, he said, pointing at my chest, “You’re never touching that.”  It came off as an order, which made me hot all over. I dove back into the water, wondering why in heavens I had agreed to pose half-naked in front of Elio.

 

The cottage was in fact a larger shed which served as storage space for discarded furniture and other disparate objects.

Anchise kept it neat and tidy and Mafalda even dusted it, once in a while.

There was a square, chipped sink in the far corner, with hot and cold water faucets.

I was inspecting it when Elio arrived, carrying a wooden easel and a flat leather case. I helped him find a place for them.

“You should have told me,” I said, “I would have given you a hand.”

He was staring at me, his lower lip trapped between his teeth. I’d forgotten that he hadn’t seen me like this yet, since before I'd been half-immersed in water.

“Too much?” I asked.

No reply.

Elio was wearing a pair of flowery shorts and a blue vest. His once pale arms had started to tan and were dotted with freckles. I could smell his sweat and imagined how it would taste along the groove of his spine.

I looked away or else my desires would have become visible.

Patrice broke the impasse: he strode in carrying his portfolio and an art book. Wound around his neck was a black satin stole.

“Annella gave me this,” he explained, “I noticed that your _slip_ was black, so I needed something to match it.”

He gave me the once over, but there was no lust or even human interest in his gaze; only the piercing curiosity of the artist.

“I think this chair is okay,” he said, pointing at a moth-eaten Louis XV relic upholstered in faded cardinal velvet. He moved it closer to the light and covered it with the stole, so that no red was visible.

“Sit down,” he said, and I complied.

“Because of Teresa and what she said about my style, I thought this would be a great pose for you.”

He opened the book and showed me the painting of Thérèse by Balthus: a girl sitting on a chair, one leg folded on top of the other, ankle touching the knee.

“It looks uncomfortable,” said Elio.

“Not if I rested my foot on the edge of the seat and stretched the other leg out,” I argued.

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea, and you could lay one hand on your knee, just like the girl in the portrait,” said Patrice.

I tried it, but was unsure about turning my head to the side: my neck would certainly ache after a while.  He agreed that I could lie back and look straight ahead. We found the perfect pose and since it seemed rather comfortable, he set up the tools of his trade and started sketching.

 

Elio was sitting cross-legged on the floor, seemingly engrossed in whatever he was writing: music, his journal or maybe just the cute doodles he had used to draw whenever he was day-dreaming.

He had chosen a spot where I could see him and which allowed him a great view of my crotch. I prayed to god that nothing would spill out of my swimsuit.

“May I speak?” I asked Patrice, who initially just grunted; I had to repeat myself twice, almost shouting the last time, before he answered that yes, I could, since he was only drawing the outline of my body and not my facial features.

“But don’t expect me to answer,” he added, “It’s like I’m underwater.”

Good, since I didn’t want to talk to him anyway.

“What are you writing?” I asked Elio.

“It’s private,” he replied, with a smirk.

“What was that about my chest hair, earlier?”

He darted a look at his boyfriend, but the latter was fully communing with his graphite pencil and the Strathmore paper along which it was gliding.

“Did you mind?”

It wasn’t really a question, but more of a tease. I remembered Annella’s words, which now that I reflected on them, had been formulated as a suggestion.

“Not the point,” I said, sternly. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“I know,” he interrupted, warily, “Because we are not together.”

“I wasn’t finished.”

He fell silent, and his posture changed: his back straightened and his shoulders were no longer hunched. I had to swallow twice in order to keep my voice from breaking.

“You can ask nicely,” I said.

“Should I say please too?”

“Yes, you should,” I replied, looking him dead in the eye.

As we locked gazes, I felt the connection we had shared, which I had feared being lost forever, spring back to life; the same electricity spark with undimmed power. In my dreams, I had held him in my arms again, but I was done with dreams.

 


	11. True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are getting there... but how will Elio react???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True - Spandau Ballet 1983

_“I bought a ticket to the world_   
_But now I've come back again_   
_Why do I find it hard to write the next line?_   
_Oh, I want the truth to be said”_

Two hours later, I was stiff in more ways than one.

Patrice got what he wanted; I was sick with desire and with the effort of concealing it.

Elio had returned to writing on his notepad, but he was biting his lips and tormenting the inside of his thigh with soft pinches and scratches; I wanted to tell him to stop, but I was afraid that his obedience would push me over the edge.

“That’s it for today,” the French boy said, at last.

I drew a deep breath and flexed my limbs. I had taken a shirt with me and hastened to put it on. I felt Elio’s eyes on me, but I resolutely avoided him.

“Am I allowed to look?” I asked Patrice, out of curiosity rather than vanity.

“It’s only an outline,” he replied, but it was clear that he didn’t mind.

He had captured the tension of my muscles despite the deceptively relaxed pose. Even though my face was a blank, my body was that of a creature ready to pounce.

Elio came up behind me; I felt his damp breath on my neck.

“You did a great job with his feet,” he said.

His boyfriend preened, and launched into a detailed explanation about perspective and proportion. I did not hear a single word, mesmerized as I was by the warmth emanating from Elio’s body and by the feel of his cotton shorts as they caressed the back of my legs.

“You are very talented,” I said, when he was done talking.

“And you are a good model,” he conceded, “I told you it would be okay.”

“I had someone to talk to.”

He seemed to shrug off his artist persona and pull on the mantle of the proud boyfriend: he kissed Elio’s cheek and wrapped him in a tight hug.

“ _Mon ange_ ,” he murmured, and I wondered whether he truly was as oblivious as he’d shown himself to be.

Perhaps he was only toying with me. A darker possibility presented itself: that Elio was also part of the game; that he was either trying to punish me or get me all riled up in order to make Patrice jealous; that they were in it together, using me as the passive pawn in their twisted sex play. The French had different standards with regards to intimacy, I told myself. Nothing is depraved to them: it’s merely a matter of trial and error. Maybe Patrice was discovering his sexuality through voyeurism and we were his guinea pigs.

“I better go,” I said, “I promised Stefano and the others that I would go to the _pizzeria_ with them.”

I didn’t suggest they might join us; I left them after agreeing to another sitting the following day. I stole a glance at Elio: he was red-faced and nervous.

 

I had never felt so flayed and unfettered before: morally, I had lost whatever high ground I’d ever aspired to, and emotionally, I was swinging to and fro like a pendulum. I wanted Elio but I didn’t trust him; I wished to tell him everything, to unburden myself of the truth, all of it, nothing spared or stinted, but I was afraid that words would break us not fix us.

In the shower, I took care of my erection. After hours of build-up, a couple of strokes did the trick; what I had not predicted was the strength and duration of my orgasm: it shook me and gutted me; I had to sit on the rim of the tub to regain my bearings.

 

It was nearly eight when I made my way upstairs; I loved these interminable days and the late dinners which stretched into the night time. There was something epicurean about the Mediterranean way, far removed from the puritanical constraints of my home life.

Elio was the living embodiment of this contrast: he was partially American, but his languor and his sensuality were purely Latin. I was insanely attracted to that side of him; I had not quite understood how much I longed for it until it had been taken away from me.

 _“Oh, for a beaker full of the warm South_ ,” Keats had got it right, I thought, smiling.

 

I wanted to sneak out unseen, but the voice of an unknown girl stopped me in my tracks. I walked as softly as I could, but Mafalda intercepted me.

“ _I ragazzi del vecchio castello_ ,” she explained, meaning Mattia and Flavia Malinverni.

I was about to give her my usual “ _Esco_ ”, I am going out, when Samuel emerged from the pantry, holding a bottle of _rosatello_.

“Come meet the kids,” he said, and I couldn’t refuse.

The first thing that struck me about Flavia Malinverni was how different she was from her brother: his hair was coppery and his face covered in freckles, while she was olive skinned and dark-haired. He was lively and prone to giggling while she was quiet and chose her words very carefully. I was not surprised that she had chosen to study law or that her brother was not very academic and would rather not go to university.

“This is Oliver,” Samuel introduced me, “I should say that he’s our summer guest, but he’s much more than that.”

“You play tennis?” Mattia asked, eagerly. “I haven’t had a decent game yet. Elio is too lazy and Patrice doesn’t care.”

His sister glared at him.

“Don’t mind him,” Flavia said, “He’s a savage. We are doing our best to tame him, but it’s hopeless.”

She had a lovely voice, deep and soothing. Patrice was sitting next to her and he was beaming. Elio – who was to the other side of him – was pushing a roast potato around the plate.

“Yes, I play tennis, and so do the friends I’m seeing tonight. I wish I could stay longer, but I have to run or risk being late.”

“Promise that you’ll play with me,” Mattia insisted.

I was about to say yes, when Elio muttered, “Wouldn’t count on it,” and snorted.

His mother chided him, “don’t be like that, _piccino_ ,” and Samuel poured him a glass of wine. I took that as my cue to leave.

“I promise,” I told Mattia, and threw one last glance at Elio, who was drinking wine as though his life depended on it.

 

The cheerful atmosphere of the _pizzeria_ lightened my mood.

Orietta and Lara were good company: their conversation was engaging without being intellectual; they were flirty but vaguely, with no real aim.

Raffaele and Marzia were pretending to quarrel, enjoying every second of it.

We’d booked a table in the garden which, despite the pots of geraniums, was rife with mosquitoes. Stefano took a spray bottle from his backpack and handed it to me.

“It’s Autan and it stinks like hell, but at least you won’t get bitten,” he said.

Lara chuckled, “It will repel more than the insects.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Orietta, exchanging winks with Daniele.

I dutifully sprayed the Autan on my arms and neck, but not on my face.

“Better make sure you get none on your lips,” Lara joked, and everybody laughed. We placed our order and our first round of beers came soon after.

The pizza was amazing, but it made me very thirsty: by the end of dinner, I was pleasantly inebriated.

I told my friends about the portrait and was teased about my near nudity and called a prude for wanting to keep my underpants on.

We decided to drink coffee at the bar gelateria since some of us wanted ice-cream.

Stefano and I stayed behind while the others marched ahead, talking loudly and singing.

“You okay?” he asked, “You seemed a bit strange when you arrived.”  

He walked with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his chinos; he had very sharp grey eyes and with his nose and bluish hair he reminded me of a Native American.

I could have fallen for someone like him, but I’d already given my heart and there was no way back.

“Has anybody told you about last year?” I asked.

“What about last year?”

I told him about Elio, not in great detail, just the bare bones. He was smart; he understood everything I didn’t say.

“I thought he was acting jealous the other day,” he said, pensively.

“He has no reason to be,” I replied, “He has a boyfriend.”

“You still haven’t told me what happened today.”

We had reached the church, so I offered him a cigarette and we sat down on the same bench where I’d been with Elio.

I didn’t know how to describe what was happening without betraying Elio’s trust, but I needed to talk it out with someone who wasn’t a Perlman. He sensed my hesitation and met me half-way.

“You want him and you believe he’s in the same boat, but he’s too young and he’s with somebody else.”

I nodded, watching the rings of smoke float in the air.

“Tell him, you have no other choice,” he concluded.

“But what if---”

He put his hand on my arm to silence me.

“If everything goes wrong, at least you’d have done the right thing.”

I got out of my head long enough to realise that he was also referring to himself.

“Did something similar happen to you?”

“His name was Maurizio,” he replied, “I wasn’t sure he wasn’t just a fling. I’d never been with a boy before; only girls and not that many. He was older, just a few years, but he’d already got his degree and it scared me, you know? The idea that he already knew who he was while I was only a student; I pretended that I was seeing other people and he’d told me that he wouldn’t share.”

His lips tightened.

“You could, now, if you’re still thinking about him,” I suggested.

“I tried, but he was gone from the only address I had.”

“Try harder,” I said, as though I were some kind of authority on relationships.

He threw the stub on the ground and crushed it under his heel.

“I am afraid of what I am going to find,” he said.

“Well, he’ll probably have another boyfriend.”

“That’s not what I’m scared of.”

I touched his hand; the skin was cold and dry.

Suddenly, my problems were reduced to silly trivialities. Elio and I were healthy; we were alive, and that was all that mattered. Men and boys, some younger than Elio, were sick; some had died already and many more would be wiped out by that terrible virus. I would keep Elio safe; if that was the last thing I did on this earth.

 

I returned home around midnight, went to the bathroom to wash and relieve myself then up to the attic.

I waited, certain that Elio would come to see me.

It was an odd sensation, which started from the back of my neck and tingled down my spine; I was like a sensitive perceiving a ghost.

An hour went by and I was at the window, smoking the last cigarette of the day, when I heard his footsteps.

I debated whether to open the door for him, but decided against it. It would send the wrong signal.

He knocked and I told him to come in.

“How was dinner?” he asked, looking down at his bare feet.

I loved them, dirty and ungainly as they were.

“Sit down, we need to talk,” I said, ignoring his question.

“What if I don’t want to?” he countered, flaring his nostrils. He was close enough that I could see the pulse throbbing in his neck.

“Sit down,” I repeated, firmly. He slumped down on the chair where he’d sat the previous time. I stood behind him and, gently, started to massage his shoulders; he was tense and my touch made it worse.

“What are you doing?”

His voice was hoarse.

“Giving you a sign,” I joked, to ease the tension.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said, but he was smiling.

I squeezed harder.

“You are not allowed to insult me.”

“What if I do it nicely and say please?”

I pressed my thumb against the side of his throat.

“Maybe I’ll forgive you,” I replied. I bent down and brought my lips to his ear, “Or I won’t.”

He cursed and melted into my touch, like a kitten demanding to be petted.

“Elio,” I whispered, and cupped my hands around his face. His eyes were half-closed and his lips parted. I wanted his kisses like I needed air, but I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“First, we talk,” I said, and he made an adorable noise of protest, but he acquiesced. I wondered whether he’d still want to kiss me after I’d told him everything, but I was willing to take the risk. And try again and again, if I had to.


	12. Against all Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can I say without spoilering this chapter? They say stuff and do stuff.  
> Elio is a minx.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Against all Odds - Phil Collins 1984 (I had forgotten how drop-dead gorgeous Jeff Bridges was in the eponymous film until I watched the video of this song.)

_“How can I just let you walk away_  
_Just let you leave without a trace?_  
_When I stand here taking every breath with you_  
_You're the only one who really knew me at all_

 _And you coming back to me is against all odds_  
_It's the chance I've got to take”_

 

When we love, we are in danger. Anything can hurt us; we are like haemophiliacs constantly in fear of sharp edges and rough touches.

I stood in that untidy room looking down at Elio’s flushed face and wished I could stave off the moment of truth. I wanted to be close to him, but I couldn’t stand to watch the effect that my words would have on him. He was unable to disguise emotions; unlike me, he had no poker face; he was open, unguarded, instinctive.

I went to sit on the window sill, ready to speak my truth to the crickets and the owls.

“When I came here last summer, I was not prepared for what was about to happen.”

Elio snorted loudly.

“When the cat’s away,” he said, “You knew you’d go back to your girlfriend, once this fling with me was over. And now you’re back for more. What does it say about me that I’m willing to oblige you again?”

It made me sick to my stomach that I was the cause of this self-chastisement, of this cynicism.

“We were not together at the time,” I took a deep breath, felt my lungs burn, “We are not together now.”

Elio burst into laughter.

“You’re such a hypocrite!” he said, in between chuckles, “I bet she doesn’t know what you did with me. She doesn’t even know I exist.”

He took my silence for an admission.

“And you won’t tell her about me when you crawl back to her, begging her to marry you. And she will agree, because no one can deny you anything.”

I rushed to him and kneeled down at his feet.

“I won’t go back to her, because we are no longer engaged. I told her it was over.”

Elio’s eyes were boring into mine and his lips were white with tension.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered. “Do my parents know?”

“No, but I suspect they guessed. Look, I knew you had a boyfriend your age and I wasn’t sure-”

He pushed me away and once again, I ended up half –sprawled on the worn wooden floor, propped up on my elbows.

“I’m fucking done with your lies!” he shouted. He shot up from the chair and paced to and fro, scratching the back of his head as though he had lice.

“Does this girl even exist?”

I nodded, but he didn’t let me get a word in. He strode up to me, raised one leg and placed his foot flat on my chest. I wanted to kiss it, lick it, nuzzle its elegant arch. I didn’t care how unclean it was. Slowly, I took it in my hand and started to caress it. He attempted to shrug me off, but not with intent. I lay down on my back, so that I could grasp it with both my hands. I wrapped my fingers around it, dug my thumb into its ball then softly massaged its toes, one by one.

He was staring at it, at my hands worshipping his foot, but when he caught me looking, he grimaced and pulled away; I knew he meant it, so I let him go.

“Her name’s Lucy,” I replied, “We have parted ways for good.”

Elio threw himself on a spare mattress that was folded in two in the midst of other assorted junk. A cloud of dust surged from it, white like flour; he sneezed and rubbed his nose and eyes, reminding me again of a cat.

I joined him, uncaring of the dirty looks he was giving me.

“I have only your word for it,” he said, “And it isn’t worth much, after what you did.”

“Why would I invent a fiancée?”

“So that you could take me and leave me as you pleased.”

“If that were the case, I’d have taken up your offer of sex with no strings attached.”

He gazed at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Maybe you want feelings too not just sex,” he replied.

“What a lousy pervert,” I joked, “Wanting your heart and not just your dick: how sick and twisted of me.”

He was trying his best to repress a smile. A second later, he was angry again.

“You knew about Patrice and came here all the same,” he argued, “You should have stayed away.”

He had a point.

“I was told you wouldn’t be here,” I said, like that was gonna help.

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t.

“You were plotting behind my back,” he said, “Nice. Well done you.”

There was no way out of this stalemate unless I told him the truth, even if sounded soppy.

“It wasn’t a plot, there wasn’t any strategy involved,” I said, “I wanted to return to the place where I’d last been happy. I’d been myself here and your parents had treated me like family. I had writer’s block too, and I hoped your father would be able to help.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, but you did too. Being near you helped.”

 Elio’s foot inched close to mine, but without touching distance.

He stared at our two extremities, frowning.

“You say all these nice things, but you didn’t do anything until now. What changed?”

“I was talking to a friend and he made me see how stupid I’d been to let you go.”

“What friend? Was it Stefano?”

“Yes, in fact---”

“You told him about us? What gave you the right?” he hissed.

“Not everything, don't worry; only that we had been together. He’s not going to gossip, he isn’t the type.”

He jumped up again, his face purple with rage.

“Oh, and you know him so well, do you? Your sweet little confidant,” he said, voice dripping with venom. “Maybe you trust him, but you see, my dear Oliver, I don’t trust you. You could have told me the moment it happened; you could have found a way, if you really wanted to.”

“I wasn’t,” I couldn’t go on, but he had guessed the rest of my sentence.

“You weren’t sure I was right for you, that’s why; and you could change your mind again, because that’s what you do. I thought you were so adamant, when I first met you: Oliver, who knows himself so well; Oliver, who never strays from his set path: what a fake you are. The Greek statue has feet of clay.”

He didn’t give me time to react; he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

 

I wanted to go after him, but I told myself that he needed time.

Elio was impulsive and fiery; I had to allow him to cool down, and there was the issue of Patrice too; he needed to be told about us. But Elio hadn’t said that he didn’t want me, so I took comfort in that.

It was late and I was exhausted; I took off all my clothes and went to bed, convinced I’d stay awake, but pretty soon I fell asleep.

It must have been close to dawn when he came back. I didn’t hear the door open or his steps approach. His voice said my name, softly, and his warm, damp, naked body sidled up to mine. I wasn’t sure it wasn’t a dream so I didn’t open my eyes; I let him hold me, his arms wrapped around me, his face pressed between my shoulder-blades.

“I have missed you so much,” he whispered - and before I could say anything in return - he added, “Don’t talk, just let me touch you.”

I relaxed into his grasp, to signal that I was obeying his request. My dick was already hard, but I’d rather pass out than break the spell.

His fingers trailed down my chest, got tangled up into a patch of hair; the pad of his thumb teased my nipple. I bit down on my tongue to stifle a moan.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve jerked off thinking of your body; imagining what it would be like to have you in my bed, inside of me, all over me, to be smelling of your sweat, of your spunk.”

I felt his thick cock slide between my buttocks. I knew he wasn’t going to allow me to come; I didn’t care; I was in heaven.

His lean torso was hot and sweaty and his peaked nipples were seeking the relief that came with skin-to-skin friction.

“All the times I’ve wished I could lick you,” he went on, and his tongue travelled up my neck to my ear, flicking the lobe with a slurping sound. “Or pinch you,” he squeezed my neglected nipple, grazing it with his nails. “Feel your flesh tremble under the palm of my hand,” he pressed my lower belly, just above my groin. My balls were heavy and aching, and the thought of his spit on them made my mouth water and my dick dribble.

All the while, his hips were thrusting wildly, as he chased his release.

“You were my man,” he husked, his hipbones slapping against my glutes, “And my woman.”

One more savage stab then another, and another, “You were my everything, Oliver,” he sobbed, biting the meat of my shoulder. He came hard, shuddering and holding on to me, like a drowning man to a raft.

My desire dissolved into tenderness, as I felt his tears trickle down my spine.

I wasn’t allowed to talk, but he hadn’t said anything about moving. I rolled over and gathered him into my arms. He hid his face into my chest, dropping shy kisses across it, while I caressed his hair, untangling his riotous curls.

We were holding a silent conversation until he reached the conclusion that it was time to torture me further.

“If I were your boy again,” he whispered, “I’d take you in my mouth and suck you.” I closed my hand around his neck; no pressure, I just let it rest there.

“I’d do anything you asked and more,” he continued, “if I was yours again.”

Again, my arousal morphed into something more complex, not as easy to decode.

He placed his cheek on my breast, just above my heart. I was the one crying now.

“I’ve dreamed of this moment,” he said, “Maybe I am dreaming again.”

I watched over him as he slept, until I could no longer keep my eyes open.

 

In the morning, he was gone.

I might have truly believed that it had been a fantasy, but the evidence of it was all over my back, encrusted on my skin.

His words still danced in the air, along with the dust motes which shimmered in the shafts of sunlight.

Against all odds, I had a second chance.

There was still Patrice to consider, of course. He was going to suffer and he had done nothing to deserve it.

When I looked down at my stomach and crotch, I found proof that I had shot a load. I smiled broadly, wondering whether it had happened with the assistance of a certain beautiful, raven-haired boy.

It was then that I remembered that I was supposed to pose again that day.

“He’d better stay away,” I muttered to myself, but deep down I wanted him to be there, to look at me and remember what had passed between us. Like the previous summer, I wanted to keep flirting with him.

 

At breakfast, it was a full house.

Elio didn’t look at me, but he smirked into his coffee cup. Samuel greeted me with the usual warmth while Patrice barely said hello, occupied as he was in telling Annella an anecdote about Flavia Malinverni. Elio’s mother listened to him and smiled, but her eyes darted from me to her son a couple of times, finally settling back on the French boy.

“How’s the book coming along?” Samuel asked me.

“Great, as a matter of fact,” I replied, as I sipped my apricot juice.

“He’s inspired,” Elio interjected, “That’s what he said.”

I wasn’t expecting that, so I was slightly taken aback.

“Well, that’s certainly good news,” the Professor said, “And I have heard you have been posing for Patrice.”

“And he’s doing it again today,” Elio said, giving one of his mock-innocent looks, “Aren’t you, Oliver?”

“Unless your father needs me,” I replied.

“Far be it from me to come between an artist and his model,” Samuel declared, folding his newspaper and beaming at me.

“It’s not as boring as I’d anticipated,” I said.

“You can always let your mind wander,” Elio’s voice was as soft as his fingers had been. “That’s what I’d do, in your place.”


	13. Hold Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio is a brat. But maybe he knows what he's doing? ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold Me Now - Thompson Twins 1984
> 
> C’est dégueulasse = it's disgusting

 

 _“You say I'm a dreamer_  
_we're two of a kind”_

 

The second sitting was to be late that morning, just before lunch.

Patrice had set the time and I couldn’t refuse him, not after what had happened with Elio.

The French boy’s behaviour puzzled me greatly: his initial hostility and his Gallic rudeness were easy to explain, but his apparent indifference and obliviousness were harder to digest.

For all that Elio had hinted that their relationship was platonic, I couldn’t fathom how he could not perceive the current of desire which thickened the air every time his boyfriend and I were in close proximity.

Maybe he wasn’t a sexual being, but wouldn’t a sensitive person take note and be hurt all the same?

I tried to talk to Elio before we met at the cottage-shed, but he left the table after breakfast and kept out of my way, probably knowing what was going on inside my head.

 

I was sunbathing and reading a book when Vimini appeared at my side, as if by magic intervention.

She was wearing pink shorts and a flowery top, not her usual style.

“ _Mamma_ bought me this and she insisted I put it on,” she said, at once interpreting my gaze. “I look like a child.”

“Unacceptable,” I said; she stuck out her tongue, making me laugh.

“I wanted to see your portrait, but Patrice said I’m too young. I told him I have seen naked men before and he made a face.”

“What sort of face?”

“Like this,” she replied, doing a near-perfect imitation of the boy’s irritated expression. “He thinks I am a child too.”

“When it’s finished, I’ll show it to you. He has talent, but aside from that I can’t figure him out.”

She scrunched her nose and took the book from my hand; she looked at the title, shoved her nose between the pages and inhaled.

“He’s too much like Elio,” she said, her words muffled by the paper she was still sniffing.

“Annella said the same thing.”

“They are like Lego bricks with one side only: they can’t go together.”

It was a suggestive analogy.

Vimini took a sip of my lemonade and complained that it lacked sugar.

“I prefer it sour,” I said.

She shook her head, chiding me, like an old aunt would chastise a fractious nephew:

“You deserve some sweetness.”

“I know myself: if I start gorging on sugar, I won’t know when to stop.”

“You’d stop when you’d want something different; like when I eat loads of ice cream then suddenly crave Chipsters.”

Perhaps she was right: by rationalising my relationship with Elio, I had tied a noose around my heart. It had been a waste of time and a cause of sorrow and regret. My mantra of knowing myself was nothing but a cowardly bluff, which kept risks at bay but stifled life too, crippling its possibilities.

 

Once again, I was the first to arrive at the cottage-shed.

The place was the same as the previous day, but I was different: nervous, excited and filled with a sense of anticipation.

Elio and Patrice arrived together: they were speaking French, so I could only pick up a few words here and there. The boy’s mother had telephoned him to tell him some news which had displeased him. Elio had an arm slung around the blond boy’s waist and was evidently doing his best to comfort him.

When he saw me, he threw me a timid smile which didn’t reach his eyes.

“If you prefer, we can do it another time,” I suggested.

“No, no, it’s alright,” he replied, muttering under his breath. “ _Maman_ is going on a cruise with _un mec horrible._ She’s not lucky with men, poor _maman_.”

“What’s so terrible about him?” I enquired.

He puffed out his cheeks.

“ _J’sais pas_ , he’s loud, talks too much and is always touching her in public,” he grimaced, “ _C’est dégueulasse_.”

Elio looked at me, silently intimating me to shut up.

“If he makes her happy,” I said, avoiding my boy’s gaze.

“At her age, she shouldn’t care about those things any longer,” Patrice said.

I didn’t want to pursue the subject, because I feared we would end up arguing.

 

“I will be doing your face today, so no talking please,” Patrice warned, once everything was ready and I had assumed my pose.

I set my eyes on Elio, so that I wouldn’t have to give the game away by shifting my gaze later on. He was sitting in the same spot and writing on the same pad.

As soon as his boyfriend put pencil on paper, he grasped the foot that I’d massaged the previous evening and started to replicate my moves. At first, he pretended it was only a casual thing, something to play with while he was writing on his notebook; I couldn’t draw breath, hypnotised by those slender fingers as they dug, grazed and prodded. Minutes later – though it seemed an eternity - he shot me a look of complicity; it was intimate and daring, and it undid me, turning me on more than any lewd word could have.

The struggle to keep my arousal in check and to refrain from licking my lips was making me sweat all over. By the time Patrice announced that he was done, I was drenched in several places, some of them not in plain view, thankfully.

I let them go first, telling them I’d stay back to smoke a cigarette. In fact, I needed one rather badly, so I was lighting up when Elio returned.

“Have you come back to check the damage you caused?” I joked.

He came up to me and prised the cigarette from my fingers.

“I haven’t talked to him yet,” he murmured, hollowing his cheeks.

“Are you going to?”

He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Should I? You might change your mind again.”

I felt like I could curse in French, given half a chance.

“And what if I did? We both know how this,” I indicated the two of us, “is going to end.”

“How’s that?” he raised his face to mine in defiance; he was challenging me to speak.   _Is it better to speak or die?_ I had died already, I wouldn’t do that again.

“It’s going to end with us in bed,” I replied, pulling him close, “You in me, me in you.” His stiff length was poking my upper thigh. “You are hard already and we haven’t even kissed yet.”

He shoved me away.

“And whose fault is that?” he hissed.

“Are we talking about last night, because if we are then you asked me to play dead,” I countered.

“Such an obedient boy,” he smirked, “Always doing what you are told; as long as it suits you, obviously.”

“You think that it suits me not to come when you are fondling me?”

“How would I know? Maybe you are into self-denial; maybe it’s what gets you off, all you want,” he spat out, stealing the cigarette again and sucking on it with fury. It was soon down to its filter, which he threw on the ground.

I’d had enough of talking; sarcastic, clever, amusing talk: I was tired of it all.

“This is what I want,” I whispered, as I took his lips in a kiss. It was sweet and slow then hungry and deep, my tongue fat and heavy in his mouth, tangling with his flailing one, his breath fruity and his skin salty. He made a mewling sound deep in his throat, so I pulled back to let him breathe.

Big mistake.

He wriggled out of my embrace and dashed out of the door which led to the orchard, the pomegranate trees. A moment later, I was going after him.

I was wearing espadrilles so I couldn’t run as fast as him, but he was barefoot and at the mercy of lady luck.  

“Ouch, ouch, fuck,” I heard him curse, and when I reached him, he was hobbling on his left foot.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You, that’s what,” he shouted, pointing at me, “Now look what you’ve done.”

“I’ll look if you let me.”

“It’s nothing,” he replied, but I knew my Elio: he wasn’t a born martyr.

I kneeled down and examined the injured foot: there was a shallow cut across the heel, nothing serious, but it was bleeding.

“You’ll live,” I said, smiling, “But I’ll have to carry you home.”

“I can walk, if I could just lean on you.”

I didn’t let him finish and did as I’d suggested, ignoring his protests. He was as light as a little child and as skittish.

“Stop squirming or I’ll drop you.”

“I don’t want them to see us like this.”

“Because I’m carrying you like a bride?”

He pouted then bit my chin.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You reek of sweat.”

“Says the little brat who provoked me while I couldn’t move,” I replied. He giggled and nuzzled my ear. “You liked that?” he whispered.

“I’d have liked it more if I could have touched you.”

“My foot?” he asked, licking along my jaw.

“To start with,” I said, and was glad that we’d reached the villa.

Mafalda was setting the table. She asked what happened and Elio replied to her; they had one of their altercations: she was worried; he complained she treated him like a kid. It was lovely, or it would have been if I hadn’t been half-hard and holding the cause of it in my arms.

I finally managed to carry him upstairs and into my bathroom. I deposited him in the bathtub; he sat on the rim, his leg raised, waiting for me to turn the water on and wash him.

“You can use your hands,” I quipped, “They are absolutely fine.”

“I hate the sight of blood,” he said, “It makes me light-headed.”

I had no intention of resisting; I’d never wanted to resist.

There was a bottle of disinfectant in the cabinet above the sink, together with cotton pads and band-aids. I placed them on the laundry basket and pulled the latter towards the bath-tub.

“We’ll clean it up first,” I said.

During the entire procedure, Elio held on to me; his eyes followed my every movement, as though mesmerised by my hands. When I stuck a dressing over the graze, he giggled softly.

“It tickles,” he said, and I had to kiss it, just to see whether he would laugh some more. He caressed my neck and squeezed my upper arm.

“We should go down to lunch,” I suggested. Not that I wanted to, but Patrice was surely wondering what had happened to us.

“I’ll go grab my sandals,” he said.

“I’d do it, but I don’t want to intrude.”

The last thing I wanted was to see the room that had been ours littered with another man’s possessions.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” he smiled, “I hope you’ll stick around this time.”

“You were the one running away.”

He laughed and limped out the door.

 

Vimini had returned to have lunch with us. We had Greek salad and grilled tuna fillets, accompanied by the driest, most exquisite white wine.

She sipped it from my glass and let out a blissful sigh.

“It must be great to get drunk on this,” she said.

Samuel pinched her cheek, “Not as great as not getting drunk on it,” he replied.

“Sounds like one of Oliver’s philosophical aphorisms,” Elio observed.

“I can’t stand drunks,” Patrice stated, clearly thinking about his father. “A little champagne is fine, but more than that it’s just not chic.”

I was reminded of Elio and the night he’d come up to the attic, intoxicated and horny.

“As long as it doesn’t become a habit,” I argued, but he wasn’t to be convinced.

“It makes everything vulgar and _pas élégant_.”

Elio’s cheeks were flushed and his mother steered the conversation on to the book that she’d ordered and was supposed to be ready for collection.

“I could go and pick it up,” I offered, “I have a couple of errands to run anyway.”

She thanked me and Samuel asked me if I could perhaps buy him a couple of literary magazines he wished to consult.

Vimini insisted she wanted to come with me, so Anchise dug out Elio’s old bike, the one he’d used when he was a kid.

He fixed it and gave it a quick spruce-up.

Elio caressed the handlebars, looking wistful.

“I missed it,” he said.

“It wasn’t that long ago since you were her age,” I replied, “Day before yesterday.”

Vimini looked at the two of us, shook her head and sighed.


	14. Hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never only fun and games with these two.  
> But they'll get there, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen 1984 - I did not know that the song came out that year. I inserted a verse of it in the story and when I looked up the date, there it was. Random. Luck.
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comment, the kudos and the support. I will reply asap. This story is taking up a lot of my time, but who cares? I'll sleep when I am dead lmao

_“And I've seen your flag on the marble arch_  
_And love is not a victory march_  
_It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah”_

 

The book Annella had asked me get for her was Angela Carter’s Night at The Circus, a story about a six-foot-two blonde virgin with real wings who’s paraded around as a freak show before joining the circus.

Vimini was fascinated by the image on the cover.

“The elephant is really sweet,” she exclaimed, caressing the shiny jacket of the hardback volume.

I enquired if they had additional copies - like Elio had done the previous year for Armance - and the bookstore owner informed me that he had a paperback edition which was not out on sale, but had been given to him as a promotional item. I offered him the same money as for the other one; he accepted and threw in a collection of poems by Alda Merini whom, he insisted, Annella would surely love.

“I’m not sure your _mamma_ will approve of my present,” I said, once we walked out into the _piazzetta_.

“Oh, she’s used to it,” my friend replied, “I read Anna Karenina two summers ago. It was when they told me that I was sick and I thought I’d better get that out of the way.”

“Did you like it?”

“Not really,” she tilted her head to one side like a bird, “But the ending was alright.”

“She kills herself.”

“If she hadn’t, the novel would have gone on for another hundred pages at least.”

I laughed and she seemed very pleased of my mirth. I loved how clear-sighted she was, even though that came with a side order of ruthlessness.

We went to get ice-creams and sat outside on straw-backed chairs under a white and yellow striped awning. The sky was the colour of blue faïence and the light was bright even through my Ray-Ban.

“Why was Elio limping?” she asked me. Her _stracciatella_ was already leaking down the cone, but she was deft at making sure none got spilt.

“He was running barefoot and he cut himself.”

“Did you go jogging together?”

“I don’t think he likes me very much at the moment,” I replied, unwilling to explain what had really happened.

“Because you didn’t tell him about your girlfriend?” she asked, smiling. “That you left her, I mean.”

“Among other things,” I replied, showing no surprise that she too had guessed what I had vainly tried to hide.

“He’s just being stubborn,” she argued, “I’m sure that he still likes you. He always gives Mafalda the evil eye when she touches your food.”

I chuckled, since that was something I had noticed too.

“One day I will come over for breakfast when he’s there and serve you like one of those funny English butlers in the Woodhouse novels. Just you watch him: he’ll huff and puff and make a big scene.”

We finished our _gelati_ and because we were both very thirsty I ordered two lemonades with ice. I took one sip and beamed at her.

“It’s very sweet,” I said.

She drank and smacked her lips.

“I wish the summer could last forever,” she sighed. “And that you’d never leave.”

I didn’t want the conversation to turn serious, but I’d felt that way too, many times, over the last twelve months. That quiet corner of Italy, the quaint shops and crumbling colonnades, the church with its ornate steeple and ancient cloister; everything had stayed with me, like postcards engraved on my soul.

 

When the heat relented, we went biking along the canals, and Vimini showed me her favourite spots, the trees she’d used to climb before she got sick and the cornfields which were going to be burnt after the harvest.

I’d never heard about this practice but she explained it was done to help the plants that were coming up and to get rid of the crop residues.

“I cried the first time I saw it,” she said. “But I loved the smell. And when the fires stopped, I ran through the field and the ashes were flying everywhere. It was like black snow.”

“You must have been a mess,” I grinned.

“I had soot inside my ears, but it was worth it.”

The feeling of unimpeded freedom I experienced when I was with Elio would come with a higher price tag, but there was no denying the wisdom of Vimini’s tale.

 

We returned when the sun was about to set.

I accompanied her home and walked the two bikes back to the villa.

The first thing I noticed was the discarded guitar on the grass patch close to _heaven_.

Annella and two of her women friends were playing cards and drinking what looked like sangria.

I said hello and she introduced me as “our Oliver”; they smiled and nodded their heads in a knowing manner. I gave her the book and she thanked me and kissed me on the cheek.

“What’s the guitar doing there?” I hadn’t wanted to ask, but I couldn’t censor myself.

“Elio’s had a little nosebleed,” she explained, and then, after seeing my face, “ _Niente di serio_ ,” she continued. “It’s really nothing, Oliver. He’s in his room, if you want to see him. Patrice’s gone to Crema with Anchise.”

“With Anchise?”

That day was full of surprises.

“Something to do with pencils,” she replied, waving one hand. “Anchise needed some gardening tools.”

I gave her the magazines I’d bought for Samuel, bounded up the stairs and knocked at Elio’s door.

“Come in!” he shouted.

I entered cautiously, keeping my eyes on the bed where Elio was resting. Bed, as in one, not two pushed together like we’d used to do. The room was tidy and there lingered a faint whiff of Patrice’s lemony scent.

Elio was holding a red-stained flannel to his nose and his fringe curls were wet. He was sitting with his back against the headboard and held a volume of Diabolik in his other hand.

“That was definitely not my fault,” I said, as I sat on the mattress.

“You didn’t stick around,” he countered, with a half-smile.

I noticed that the band-aid on his foot needed replacing.

“You know where I was,” I replied, and realised I’d forgotten to give Annella the book of poems. What she didn’t know about she wouldn’t miss.

“Maybe this will make you feel better,” I said, pulling the volume out of my duffel bag.

He placed the Diabolik face down on the bedside table and leafed through my present. His attention was caught by a poem and he read the ending out loud:

_‘Even so in me there’s the surprise_

_that you will lie next to me dying_

_after a river of life_

_has pushed you up against the levees.’_

“What’s it called?”

He didn’t look at me and his face and tone of voice were serious.

“The Song of the Groom,” he replied, “It’s about commitment.”

I caressed his ankle and his slender, hairy calf.

“It’s very beautiful,” I said, both of the poem and Elio’s leg.

“I had a fight with Patrice. He said he didn’t want to know about us.”

“You told him?”

“I tried, but he ignored me.”

“He can’t pretend everything’s fine when he doesn’t want to, you know.”

I couldn’t say it.

“Since we never did, he thought I was okay with it.”

“You must have been, I mean, he must have noticed how much you wanted to.”

“It’s not like between us, it never was.”

“I know what you mean.” It had been the same for me and Lucy: I had felt little or no desire, but as soon as I got close to Elio, my senses had reawakened.

He removed the flannel from his nose: one nostril was encrusted with dried blood, but the bleeding had stopped.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I said, but he pouted at me, refusing to move.

I went to the bathroom to get what I needed. When I returned, he was reading the poems, his hand folded under his chin.

“Why doesn’t he care about me?” he asked, and when he raised his eyes to me, I saw that they were filled with tears.

I started wiping his nose with the clean wet flannel, while I held his chin between thumb and forefinger.

“Do you mind so much?”

A tear rolled down his cheek. I wanted to follow its path with my lips.

“No, but you left and then I met him and he was so upset because of his parents,” he sniffled, “He needed me and I thought that finally I could matter, you know? Make a difference in his life, change it for the better, not like with you.”

“What do you mean?”

My heart gave a sharp jolt.

“You never believed I was good for you. But I could have been good for him, if he’d let me. You rejected me and he did the same.”

I dropped the flannel and cupped my hands around his face.

“I did not reject you,” I said, staring him in the eye, “I was too scared to face the truth. And Patrice is afraid of it too. It may not be for the same reasons, but it’s not your fault. You did nothing wrong.”

“I cheated on him with you.”

“This only happened yesterday, you’ve been together for months.”

He dropped his gazed and blushed.

“Maybe he’d understood that I wasn’t fully committed. Not like the person in the poem.”

I traced the outline of his lips with the pad of my thumb.

“And why weren’t you?” I whispered.

He bit down on my finger then licked its tip.

“You know why,” he murmured.

“Yeah?” I was out of breath already, but then he sucked my thumb into his mouth and time seemed to stop. He kept his eyes fixed on mine and hollowed his cheeks, while his tongue teased the underside of the finger, suggestively pressing against the joint.

I had been horny while I’d posed for Patrice and had no release, so it was only a matter of seconds before I was fully hard again. I loved his mouth and I recalled how he’d been addicted to mine; I sought proof of that, and found it, as the palm of my hand met his wet shorts and the bulge underneath them. He thrust into me and I would have gone down on him, had it not been for the sight of the bloodied flannel which brought me back to earth.

“You’re not,” I stammered, “I don’t want you to be sick because of me.”

He gazed at me with hooded eyes which quickly turned limpid and cutting.

“I am sick because of you,” he said, “You are inside my head and I can’t get rid of you.”

Things which had seemed straightforward revealed hidden complications; like a wide road in a dream suddenly contorting into a maze with no discernible way out. I had put my cards on the table, but there was no victory march, no hallelujah moment.

Elio was in a relationship which I could discount as insignificant, but that didn’t make it so. He had spent more time with Patrice than with me and there was a possibility that he may not want to give him up despite what he felt for me.

It hurt like hell to admit that, but I had to face the truth.

“I’m not going to leave,” I said, “But you have to pick a side.”

He grimaced, “It’s not a game.”

“No, it’s not,” I agreed, “You can provoke me all you like, I can accept it and perhaps I even deserve it. But if you get in bed naked with me again, don’t take it for granted that I will do what you ask.”

“What will you do?”

I grabbed his hand, put three of its fingers inside my mouth and sucked, hard.

He emitted a strangled moan and crawled on top of me until he was straddling my lap; he pressed his body to mine and dotted my throat with kisses.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

I brushed my fingers through his hair, down his neck and along the curve on his spine. He was folding and unfolding like a reluctant flower and at once I wanted to protect him and undo him.

“You didn’t mean what?”

“That I want you out of my mind,” he replied, resting his head on my shoulder, “I got so used to chasing your memory away that it’s become a habit, a reflex.”

“We can take our time,” I reassured him, “I’m not going anywhere for another month at least.”

“I don’t want to end up like last year, with only a few days to spend together.”

“That’s not gonna happen, not unless you want it to.”

“Promise?” he asked, his hand in my hair, tugging softly.

“Promise,” I replied.

In my imagination, that river was enveloping us and keeping us wedded together, bonded for life.

 


	15. Is This The Future?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is getting a taste of what his life with Elio might be, in the future.
> 
> Pure fluff, dubious architecture and a picnic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is This The Future? - Fatback 1983
> 
> The Russian salad is also knows as Olivier salad

_“Can it be? Are you telling me  
This is the future?”_

 

That evening at dinner we were joined by Lewis Carey, a British archaeologist who had just returned from Jordan where – at the site of Ayn Ghazal near Amman – he’d been part of a team led by an American anthropologist; they’d dug up a set of Neolithic statues, which were among the earliest large-scale representation of the human form, dating from the 7th to 8th millennium BC.

I had never seen Samuel so excited; his eyes were wide as saucers and his glasses kept sliding down his nose, as though they too couldn’t contain their elation.

I wished Vimini was there and couldn’t wait to tell her about it.

Elio was still a bit pale from his nosebleed and Mafalda was doting on him, serving him a double helping of roast chicken, which he devoured while he listened to Carey’s account of the excavation.

Samuel asked his guest if he had photos to show us. Naturally, the event had been documented in the press, but it was always more interesting to get insider information. With typical British reserve, the man initially demurred, but after a few glasses of the diabolical _rosatello_ , he pulled out a flat wallet from his backpack and showed us a handful of photographs of the statues.

“You’re like Indiana Jones,” observed Patrice, and Carey cast him a bemused glance. He couldn’t have been more different from the fictional adventurer: he was tall and spindly, with a mass of ginger hair and sunburn on his nose and cheeks.

“I wouldn’t be able to stand all that excitement,” he replied, “Being chased by Daily Mail’s journalists is bad enough without having to contend with spies and criminals.”

“I suppose that there must be a lot of bureaucracy too,” I said.

He sighed, “You can say that again. The site was found because developers were building a highway. Let’s just say they weren’t best pleased.”

“That’s the case here in Italy too,” Samuel chimed in, “They wrap you up in paperwork like a mummy.”

“Are you going back?” asked Elio, who had polished off his meat and was now attacking the Russian salad with the same zest.

“Oh yes,” Carey replied, “In fact, I was hoping to convince your father to become a member of our merry little gang.”

Annella was overjoyed, “ _Ma che bellezza_!” she exclaimed, clasping her husband’s hand, “You are going, aren’t you?”

“I will have to take a sabbatical, but I doubt the University will complain. This is a major discovery and one of the statues has already been acquired by the Louvre.”

“Can we come too?” Elio asked.

“You can come visit next summer,” his father replied, “We’ll be there from January, if all goes according to plan.” He gazed at me to include me in the invitation and I had every intention of accepting it, regardless of how things were going to pan out with Elio. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to give up until he admitted that we belonged together; and what better chance of proving it than sharing such a wonderful experience with him?

Patrice regretted he could not be part of the expedition due to his dust allergy, but it was obvious that he wasn’t impressed by the lack of glamour implied in Carey’s description of his duties.

We spent the next couple of hours quizzing him about his work, talking about Petra and Jericho; about Tell es-Sultan, where he believed more digging would take place soon; and about the fact that he didn’t feel like he was living in the twentieth century most of the time.

“The past is endlessly alluring to the human race,” he said, “and that’s perhaps why many choose my profession.”

“But not you,” I said.

He smiled, and an array of creases formed at the corners of his mouth.

“No, not I,” he confirmed, “It was mainly to spite my father, who wanted me to become a civil servant. I’d have been entombed inside some damp office in Westminster, so I chose real tombs instead.”

I could well understand that instinct for rebellion.

“And you never regretted it?” asked Elio.

The man laughed.

“You must not be familiar with our current government,” he replied, “I’d rather be supping with the devil than working for that lot.”

We were all in agreement, even Patrice, who in typical Gallic fashion didn’t have much sympathy for his neighbours at the other side of the channel.

When Mafalda brought us the Limoncello, I poured the liquor into the shot glasses – only for the five of us since Patrice didn’t drink spirits – and reflected on how delightful the dinner had been: the food, the balmy night, the company; I wanted to perpetuate this tradition with Elio; I saw us in the future, in our house, with our guests; laughing, playing the piano and sharing ideas and dreams.

I must have sighed, because Annella asked me if I was alright.

“Never been better,” I replied. She offered me a cigarette and Elio demanded one too. I lit his before mine and he took the chance to brush his fingers across the back of my hand.

“You okay?” I whispered.

“Me okay,” he replied, softly.

 

I was too keyed up to go to sleep, so I decided to go for a night swim. I wanted to be alone, or at least not to be with Elio, because it would have been too difficult to keep my hands off him; he was tempting as it was without adding water and moonlight to the mixture.

The pond was always popular with couples, but I was hoping to find a quiet spot to myself. It wasn’t to be.

As soon as I got there, I heard a boy’s voice calling me; I didn’t recognise him at first, until I saw the shock of auburn hair as the light of the full moon dwelled on it.

It was Mattia Malinverni, who was there with his sister and two of his cousins who, he explained, lived in Austria and seldom enjoyed the pleasures of night swimming. He introduced me to them, but they were more interested in splashing in the water, which I could perfectly understand.

Flavia was wearing an Olympic-style one piece swimsuit and her hair was gathered up in a tight ponytail: she looked flawless.

“What have you done with Patrice and Elio?” she asked.

“They should still be at the villa,” I replied.

“You’ve never seen our decrepit house,” she continued, “Tomorrow we are having a picnic: why don’t you all come?”

“Yes, yes, please,” said Mattia, “And bring your racket; you promised you’d play tennis with me.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I replied, “But I don’t know about Elio and Patrice.”

“I already asked Patrice,” Flavia stated, “I saw him this afternoon in Crema.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, he wanted my advice on gouache. My aunt paints portraits. Not their mother,” she explained, pointing to her cousins, “My father’s sister, who lives in France.”

“And you know about paints and colours?”

“I thought about becoming an artist, when I was little.”

“It didn’t take,” I joked.

In the meantime, Mattia had left us to join the other two boys: lots of screaming and laughter ensued.

“It’s not a secure profession,” she said, “Only a few make it and the rest teach to survive. I want to make money, have a career.”

She seemed very dispassionate for someone so young, but I kept my considerations to myself.

We arranged to meet on the following day and she left me alone, correctly judging it to be my wish.

I swam until my muscles began to ache. When I emerged from the water, they’d already left.

 

They called it the old castle, but that wasn’t my idea of a castle, new or old.

The best way to describe it was to imagine that Palladio and Gaudí had worked together, drunkenly merging their styles: the arches and columns belonged to the former, while the uneven turrets and gables to the latter. The stone it was made of must have been white once, but it was now greyish and dotted with mould patches.

At the back of it there was a manicured lawn and a tennis court, but outside that well-tended enclosure were fields of lucerne and paths rife with stinging nettles and brambles.

It was the emblem of savagery lurking at the margins of civilisation.

The inside of the house was surprisingly modern, with no Turkish carpets or towering credenzas in sight.

Mattia and Flavia’s parents had gone to Lake Como, but their housekeeper - a friend of Mafalda's named Gilda - had prepared everything we needed for the picnic.

I didn'tunderstand why we couldn’t simply eat outside on deck chairs, and it was Flavia who provided an explanation.

“There’s a karst spring twenty minutes from here,” she said. “The water is cool and there’s plenty of shade.”

It was one of the hottest days yet so that description sounded very attractive.

Elio was wearing a hat and his hair was still wet from the shower; hopefully he wouldn’t get another nosebleed, I thought.

Marzia and Raffaele had been invited too; they were the last to arrive, and we soon made our way to the picnic site.

 

The location of the karst spring was almost identical to Elio’s secret spot; for a brief moment, I believed them to be one and the same. He was walking ahead of me, holding Marzia’s hand, but he probably guessed my feelings: he turned towards me and mouthed “no speeches”; I silently replied “you goose,” and felt that customary warmth spread from my chest down to my belly.

We spread out our beach towels and sheets; Raffaele and I placed the lemonade and soda bottles in the water, making sure they wouldn’t float away.

The two Malinverni cousins, Niko and Jan, were younger than Elio, probably about fourteen and fifteen, and were only interested in eating, swimming and searching for insects.

We had playing cards and a Monopoly board, and Patrice had brought paper and pencils. He wanted to sketch the clumps of trees and Flavia was giving him suggestions and inspecting his materials.

Raffaele taught me an Italian card game: after a trial run, I won three times in a row.

“He plays poker for money,” said Elio; I couldn’t tell whether he was proud, annoyed or both.

“I haven’t, not for a while,” I replied, “But I was thinking about going one of these nights.”

“If that’s your story,” he bit back.

Marzia, who had been playing checkers with Mattia, looked in our direction and called her boyfriend over.

As soon as he left, I confronted Elio.

“What’s your problem with poker? I don’t bet big sums and it’s my money anyway.”

He put his sunglasses back on and lay back on his elbows.

“Who said I had a problem?”

“Are you upset with me or with your boyfriend?”

Farther away, Patrice was chatting with Flavia, their two heads close together, both beautiful in their own distinctive way. She was three years older than him and seemed yet more mature. I was beginning to see what Annella and Vimini had meant: maybe Flavia’s gender wasn’t as important as her age and poise.

Elio glanced at them and then back at me.

“That’s not,” he said, “I don’t _care_. But last year you came back one night - you remember the one I’m talking about?”

We’d had a discussion the morning after and Samuel had spoken of _traviamento_ , of being a dissolute.

“Yes, and?”

“You came back very late and you were gaunt and I didn’t believe for a second that it was because you’d played cards.”

“What did you believe?”

He plucked a blade of grass and chewed on it.

We were practically whispering, but Marzia and Raffaele were laughing and talking loudly, making sure Mattia couldn’t overhear us.

“That you’d spent the night in someone’s bed, or with more than one person.”

“I told you it wasn’t the case.”

“You really meant it?”

I wanted to hug him, but I clasped his ankle instead. It was as thick as my wrist, I thought, suddenly feeling hot and cold.

“I only slept with you,” I murmured, “I made out with Chiara and with a few other girls whose name I forgot, but nothing more.”

“They didn’t touch, you know,” he motioned to my groin, and his pout made me smile.

“Not everybody is as brave as one Elio Perlman,” I replied, grinning. He was referring to the time when he had grabbed my crotch.

“You have to admit that it took some balls to do that,” he said, before realising the words he’d used.

“Balls were definitely taken,” I quipped, “More than once.”

He spat the bit of grass out of his mouth and burst into giggles. I laughed with him and moved around until I was lying next to him. Elio and I, the earth beneath our bodies and the blue sky above: in that moment, I could hear his heart beating and feel the blood coursing through his veins; again, I had a vision of the future, of us together in a park, anywhere, maybe miles away. I was sated and happy, I wanted to stay like this forever; I lacked for nothing.

 

 


	16. Harden My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who sensed angst: guess what? You were right.
> 
> I'm sorry.
> 
> I promise it will get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harden My Heart - Quarterflash 1981

_“I'm gonna harden my heart_  
_I'm gonna swallow my tears_  
_I'm gonna turn and leave you here”_

The next couple of days were odd: time seemed suspended when I was hunched over my books or sunbathing by the pool; there were vivid moments, such as that afternoon in the study, Samuel showing me a volume of photographs by Roman Vishniac, whom he’d met in New York. Annella, who was bringing in a tray of apricot juice, heard the name and her face lit up.

“He was such an inspiration,” she exclaimed.

“You met him too?” I asked.

“I was one of his students when he taught Creativity at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. He had been in Germany in the 1930s, but he and his family had managed to escape to the US.”

“But his father stayed in France and hid the son’s photos and negatives under the floorboards,” Samuel said. He was moved, I could see the glimmer of tears in his eyes. He was a gentle, kind man, but nothing touched him as deeply as the brave deeds of those who risked their lives to salvage a work of art. I suspected that a bonfire of books would hurt him as much an act of violence.

The closer I got to them, the more I understood Elio’s personality; how he could be a child and an adult at the same time, both naive and wise; his father must have been like him, I thought, and his mother had been his steadying influence.

Maybe that was why Annella, who had been guarded with me at first, had lately given me hints that she approved of my pursuit of her son: she possibly believed that I would be to Elio what she had been to Samuel.

 

As for Elio himself, he was a puzzle.

After the picnic, I’d played tennis with Mattia, to honour my promise; first, it was just the two of us, then it was doubles with Raffaele and Marzia.

Elio’s foot was still recovering, he insisted, but I knew that it was only an excuse, since he rarely bothered with sports. He swam and cycled, because they were solitary pursuits which he could take or leave as and when he pleased.

He wasn’t the team-player sort, my Elio.

 

Patrice had spent the day in the company of Flavia; she had tried to play the good hostess and include Elio in their conversations, but the French boy ignored her hints and nudges. Evidently, I considered, this was payback for Elio’s attempt at breaking up with him.

That evening they went upstairs soon after dinner and I stayed back, chatting to the Perlmans and to their guests, a couple of distant relatives on their way to the Alps. I hardly knew what I was saying, my thoughts scattered like pearls from a broken necklace.

 

I was waiting for Patrice to ask me to pose for him again, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s he gone?” I asked Elio, as I took a break from writing and paced back and forth in the garden, to perk up my system.

He shrugged his shoulders, picked up his guitar and strummed a sequence of plangent notes. I smiled, and he looked affronted.

“What?” he demanded, his chin jutting out in defiance.

“Nothing,” I replied, “Keep up your plunking. It’s soothing, in a way.”

“You can tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Where did you get that notion from? I just said the opposite, didn’t I?”

He pouted and played some more. I thought I recognised the melody but I couldn’t quite place it.

“Is that Debussy?”

He bit his lips and went on plucking the chords. It was La Mer, I was sure of it.

“Have you been composing?” I enquired. His shoulders slumped and his expression morphed into one of sadness.

“I can’t think,” he muttered, looking down at his fingers as they gripped the instrument. I sensed that he didn’t want to be questioned further, so I went back to my work.

 

Patrice reappeared after lunch and I agreed to meet him in the cottage-shed at four that afternoon. Elio - who had gone to visit some friends in Crema - did not make an appearance. I stared at the spot where he’d used to sit and felt a lump in my throat.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, while Patrice was arranging his paraphernalia.

“It’s not really any of your business, but I’m done with Elio. _C’est fini_.”

I couldn’t pretend that I was sorry, so I offered a few platitudes which he dutifully ignored.

“He’s too young for me,” he said.

“I thought you didn’t care for older people.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t mean what I said to you,” he said, smiling widely. He had a surprising talent to charm, which in the future would serve him well with buyers and agents. It was all the more effective because it was unexpected, like the sun peering through a thick blanket of clouds on a winter day. “I was jealous because he’d been going on about you as though you were Adonis and Simon Le Bon rolled into one.”

“I can’t sing worth a lick,” I said, “And I’ve never slept with a goddess; plus I tend to put on weight, which is why I can’t have more than one egg for breakfast.”

He eyed me up and down, critically.

“You don’t need to be modest,” he argued, “I’m French, we don’t do that.”

I chuckled.

“ _Mais quoi?_ ,” he insisted, “I can never understand why one should pretend to be ugly when one is not. Waste of time, mine and yours. You are very handsome, just not my type.”

That was fair enough, and I appreciated the frankness, especially since he was no longer Elio’s boyfriend.

“What now?” I asked, wishing to strike while the iron was hot.

“Flavia said that I could move into their _orangerie_ ,” he replied, “The light’s good for painting and there’s a private bathroom at the back.”

I wondered if they were dating but since it didn’t concern me, I let it slide.

We spent two hours in silence, but it wasn’t unpleasant: he was focussed on his drawing and I was daydreaming.

 

Elio’s silence should have alerted me, but like I said, time was playing strange tricks on me. Maybe it was also the heat which, as July drew to a close, had become relentless and seldom released its stranglehold.

 

It was on the following evening that things reached a turning point.

Stefano had invited me to join them for the _aperitivo_ at the usual bar in the piazza. I had been cooped up inside for hours, editing my manuscript and helping Samuel catalogue some slides, so I’d accepted. I told Annella I’d be out for dinner, searched in vain for Elio, grabbed my bicycle and left.

“We thought you’d become a monk,” Orietta joked, when I arrived. They were already sitting outside, fanning themselves with folded newspapers and drinking ice-cold Peroni.

“Look at him,” Lara argued, “You can’t be a monk and wear those shorts. It’s impossible!”

“A nudist monk,” said Daniele, who had an arm slung across the back of Orietta’s chair.

“You guys call this an _aperitivo_?” I countered, “You are drinking beer, like philistines. I’m having a Campari Bitter on ice, what about you?” I asked Stefano, the only one who was still without a drink.

“Same,” he replied, smiling. “But I’ll come with you.”

It was one of those old-fashioned places where you had to order at the counter.

Inside it was cooler because of an enormous ceiling fan, which buzzed like an approaching helicopter.

“Did you talk to him?” he asked, as we waited to be served.

“Yes, but I’m not sure where we stand.”

Saying it out loud made it all too real. I briefly told him what had happened, leaving out the details that Elio wouldn’t have wanted me to divulge.

“He only needs time,” he said, “It’s a lot to take in and quite sudden.”

“I have to admit that I understand Patrice more than Elio, at the moment.”

“That’s because you don’t care about him, so you can be more objective.”

I glanced at him and wondered why it seemed like we’d been friends for a long time rather than only a few days.

“I’m sure you are right,” I replied.

With our drinks in tow, we rejoined the others and spent an hour chatting, laughing and getting a bit tipsy. It was nearly dark when we decided to go to the restaurant on the canal; it had opened recently and was renowned for its fish dishes.

We had to wait twenty minutes in order to sit outside, but it was worth it.

There were multi-coloured fairy lights and Chinese lanterns and candles on every table. I would take Elio here one night, I thought. Lara seemed to agree with me, because she hugged Stefano and squealed, “It’s so romantic!” He kissed her on the cheek and she shrieked even louder.

The fish took time to cook, so we drank beer while we waited. It went right through me, and when I asked for the toilets, I found them busy.

One of the waiters saw me fidgeting and smiled, “You can go out the back from that red door,” he said. “The canal is just there, no one will notice you.”

In normal conditions, I wouldn’t have done it, but I was slightly drunk and my bladder was aching.

After I’d relieved myself, I walked around for a while, enjoying the fresh air and the quiet of the night. I hadn’t gone too far, when I noticed a path that led up to the road. I saw two bikes: one of them looked familiar, but nothing really clicked.

There was barely any illumination at that point, so the voices alerted me before I stumbled on the bodies.

“You’re so sweet,” the boy said; my boy, Elio.

The girl, because it was a girl, was lying on the grass, underneath him.

I saw her hands as they trailed down his back; he had a white t-shirt on; I hated to think that it could be the same he’d worn that first night we--- I was about to retch.

I coughed before I could stop myself. He turned his head towards me, but I was already walking away.

“Oliver,” I heard him call, “Oliver!”

I didn’t stop, but I knew he was running after me.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, “Were you following me?”

He had grasped my arm and I shrugged his hand off me.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I replied. I really wanted to hurt him.

“It was not,” he started.

I laughed at him.

“I saw what it was,” I said, the sting of tears already burning my eyes. It wasn’t pain; it was rage. “Better go back or she might get impatient.”

It was too dark to see properly, but I could tell that he was in some crisis of emotion.

“Would you just stay and talk to me?”

“I don’t think so, kid,” I spat out the last word, “You could have talked to me before, but not now.”

“Nothing’s happened.”

“If that’s what you call nothing, I wonder what it was that you and Patrice weren’t doing together.”

He moved a step closer and stared me in the face.

“He’s got nothing to do with this,” he said.

“I know he doesn’t,” I replied, “I misjudged that kid. He’s wiser than I gave him credit for. He got your number all right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Wasn’t I clear? No? Let me spell it out for you: he understood that you were not to be trusted, so he kept you at arm’s length.”

He swallowed loudly, preparing his answer. I had no intention of waiting for it.

“I got dinner waiting for me and your girl will think you’ve ditched her.”

“She isn’t my girl.”

“Whatever,” I said, and walked away.

Rationally, I knew I had no reasons to be angry: I had left him and got engaged to Lucy. I had lied to him about breaking up with her and had taken advantage of the situation in order to win him back. He was a single young boy who had every right to fool around with girls; he owed me nothing.

That was the head talking; the heart, my heart, was in pieces.

 


	17. I Should Have Known Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the angst continues...
> 
> These two cannot be trusted to take a straight line from A to B: long and winding road is the name of the game...
> 
> I promise there WILL be a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Should Have Known Better - Jim Diamond - 1984  
> I challenge you to listen to this song, think of Elio and Oliver and not cry at least once.

 

_“And I should have known better to lie to one as beautiful as you._  
_Yeah, I should have known better to take a chance on ever losing you.”_

I don’t know how I made it through dinner without blurting out what had just happened or drinking myself into a stupor, but I did it.

Anger was overriding pain, which surely helped.

The man who’d gone to the toilets wasn’t the same who returned to the table: I was louder, full of laughter and jokes, and the two girls couldn’t get enough of me.

Stefano was throwing me questioning glances all through the evening; he even tried to find out whether anything was the matter, but I brushed his worries aside, poured more wine into his glass and moved on to the next anecdote.

By the end of that tour de force, I was dead on my feet.

Daniele, who usually wasn’t the most perceptive of boys, caught a whiff of my underlying torment and asked me if I wanted to stay with them that night. Their house was not far from the canals and I would have accepted had I not needed privacy so badly.

Somehow I reached the villa unscathed, left the bike leaning against the trunk of a tree, took a deep, steadying breath and went inside.

 

I had resolved to use the bathroom downstairs and sleep in the attic, but I was on my guard in case Elio tried to ambush me.

It wasn’t the time for conversation: one thing I had learned through age and experience was that no good ever came of arguing while in the grip of conflicting emotions. I needed to sleep on it and face Elio once my mind was clearer and my heart colder.

I hadn’t seen any light seeping out of his window, but I knew that he didn’t mind waiting in the dark, so I wasn’t reassured.

Brushing my teeth and washing my face and hands took great concentration, and when I opened the door to the attic, I was having trouble staying upright.

I didn’t want to switch on the night light, so I relied on the moonlight in order to find the mattress.

It was with a renewed sense of déjà vu that I perceived Elio’s half naked form lying down, his head turned towards the door.

Fortunately I didn’t say anything, only bit back a gasp, because when I kneeled down next to him, I saw that he was sleeping.

He must have been waiting for me for a while, maybe since I’d found him with that girl.

His lips were plump and his cheeks flushed: it was torture not to touch him, but that would have solved nothing. I stared at him for endless minutes, and would have kept looking if I hadn’t been so exhausted.

I left him there and went to sleep in my room.

The sheets were fresh and scented; they were familiar and alien at the same time. The ache in my chest returned with increased violence, but tiredness prevailed.

 

I woke up to the chattering of voices next door. For a while, I didn’t understand what was happening or where I was.

My watch told me that it was past ten and my stomach growled.

The noises increased: drawers being opened and shut, people pacing up down, heavy objects being dropped from one surface to another.

Patrice was packing, I concluded.

I had wanted him out of the way since the moment I’d heard of him yet now that he was going, I wished to go back to the time where he’d been my sole adversary.

Another male, boy or man, I could deal with, but if Elio desired to be with a woman, there was nothing I could do. It was what it was and I had to face it.

I stood up, feeling a bit dizzy, and staggered to the bathroom. Once there, I went straight into the shower: the noise of water drowned all other sounds.

I got ready as quickly as I could and hurried downstairs, my hair still damp and my balance not quite steady.

Mafalda was coming out of the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee; she greeted me and her smile was like a balm to my soul. I loved every single person in that house and it hurt to think that I’d perhaps missed my chance to be part of the family.

I had no one else to blame but myself.

 

Annella put down the book she was reading.

“Good morning, _tesoro_ ,” she said, “Elio is helping Patrice with the packing. He’s going to stay with Flavia and Mattia. They’ve become really close friends.”

“Yeah, he told me. I’m happy for him.”

She glanced at me while I sipped my espresso.

“You know that you can always talk to us, don’t you?” she said.

I couldn’t sustain her gaze, but I nodded my head several times; she didn’t insist and started talking about the novel she was reading.

We were soon interrupted by Elio and Patrice, the former carrying the latter’s luggage, while the French boy took care of the tools of his trade.

Samuel was right behind them and took the suitcase off his son’s hands.

“I’ll wait for you in the car,” he said, waving a hand in my direction and smiling.

Annella rushed up to Patrice and hugged him tightly. I could see that he was touched by the way his lips compressed into a thin line.

They spoke in French for a little while and I felt Elio’s eyes on me, but I was spreading jam on my toast with meticulous care, taking my time; since I wasn’t paying attention, Patrice’s nearness caught me unawares. He’d come up to me and snatched a Ringo from a plate on the table.

“Will you come and pose for me later today?” he asked, “I think I only need two more sessions.”

“Sure,” I replied, “What about four o'clock?”

“ _Nickel_ ,” he said, and laughed when he saw my expression. “It means perfect,” he explained, “I will be in the _orangerie_. You remember the tennis courts? It’s that strange building next to them, the one which looks like a mausoleum.”

“A folly,” I explained, smiling. “That’s what they used to call those monstrosities.”

“We’ve both learned something,” he said, “I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” I replied, shaking his hand.

 

My head was pounding and the massive dose of caffeine I'd imbibed did not alleviate it. I took a couple of aspirins and lay down on a deckchair, in the shade.

I didn’t want to see anything, so I shut my eyes and listened to the sound of the cicadas and the faraway clatter of pans and plates in the kitchen. Anchise was working in his shed and Annella had gone to visit some friends in Pandino.

I was hoping Elio would stay away: I wasn’t in the mood for anything emotional or drastic. Luckily, the first to approach me was Vimini.

“You look awful,” was her opening gambit.

“I feel even worse,” I groaned, “I mixed beer with wine. Not literally.”

“Has Patrice gone yet?” she asked.

I opened my eyes a chink and took in her animated face, the curious eyes and upturned nose. She reminded me of a sprite.

“To the old castle, an hour ago,” I replied, “How do you know?”

“He and Elio were having a fight yesterday. Patrice told Elio that he was a whining child and Elio said look who’s talking. It was quite funny.”

“Where was that?”

“At the pond,” she said, “I was there looking for pebbles.”

“Was it just the two of them?”

“I’m not sure, but I think that Elio was with a group of people and Patrice had come to look for him to tell him something.”

I wondered if the girl he’d been dating was among that group, but I didn’t want Vimini to get an inkling of what had happened the previous evening. She was like a dog with a bone and I wasn’t in good enough shape to resist her.

“You don’t seem happy that he’s no longer with Elio.”

I took my time to formulate an answer.

“I want him to be happy,” I replied.

“And you don’t think he is?”

“You saw them: what did you make of it?”

She thought about it and frowned.

“I got the impression that Patrice was happier than Elio; that he was stronger, in a way.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.”

It made sense that Patrice would have had the upper hand considering he’d decided where he wanted to be and with whom, while Elio was still at sea.

 

At lunchtime, I decided to accept Vimini’s invitation to eat at her house. Her parents were eager to talk to me and I wished to reassure them that their daughter wasn’t over-tiring herself or endangering her health.

I stayed there until it was time to head to the old castle; I had already changed into my black Speedo and there was no need for me to return to the villa.

As I cycled past the cornfields and orchards, I rejoiced that I had succeeded in delaying my confrontation with Elio and in the fact that I was a little less confused and a lot calmer.

The orangery, like the main house, was peculiar on the outside, but rather splendid on the inside. The chair I sat on was an antique, but it had been re-upholstered and polished to perfection. The tall glass panes were spotless and the tiled floor was gleaming.

Patrice was noticeably more at ease than I’d ever seen him. I wondered if he’d felt out of place at the villa because of me or if the situation would have been the same regardless.

Out of the blue, moments before he immersed himself fully in his task, he said:

“Elio’s not alright; he hasn’t been since I met him. I was in a bad place, but so was he. He was acting like he was my saviour or something and I believed him for _un petit moment_. I should have known better.”

I employed the two hours that followed pondering Patrice’s words and feeling the bite of remorse and regret in equal measure.

As the minutes elapsed, I became increasingly anxious, my heart thudding in my throat. When Patrice announced that he was done, I thanked him, told him I would meet him the following day at the same time and sprinted out.

 

“Where have you been?”

Elio descended on me as soon as I got off my bike.

“With Patrice, sitting for my portrait,” I replied, brushing an imaginary piece of lint off my shorts.

“Why, you couldn’t stand him before and now you’d rather be with him than with me?”

He scratched the back of his head and tried to catch my eye.

“I’m posing for him, as you know.”

“Can we talk?”

I hated that pleading tone, hated that I was the cause of it.

“Let’s go to the cottage,” I suggested.

He followed me inside; the chair where I’d sat for Patrice was still there; it looked like the relic of a shipwreck.

We stood there facing one another, tense and unwilling to break the silence.

I was the one to claim that burden, since it belonged to me.

“I shouldn’t have come here without talking to you first,” I said, “It was a mistake and I apologise for it; one more mistake, as if I had not made enough already.”

He stared at me open-mouthed.

“You don’t want to ask me about the girl?” he whispered.

“I have no right to ask you for anything,” I replied, “You are free to do as you please. I have treated you,” I shook my head, I was so angry with myself. “There are no excuses for the way I behaved.”

“You are leaving,” he whispered.

“No, no, I am not going anywhere. But we need to take a step back and learn to trust each other again. We were friends before we became lovers, and that’s what we should be again. You should be free to experiment, like you did with Marzia last year. After all, you haven’t really had the time to enjoy fooling around for the fun of it.”

“And you want to do that too?” he asked, “With somebody else?”

“No, but I have done that already; when I was your age.”

He moved a step closer, and another, until he was only inches away.

“And what if I wanted to kiss you or... more?”

I clenched my teeth and got my breathing under control.

“We could revisit that idea of yours,” I replied, “About being friends with benefits.”

“You’d do that?”

“Yes, I would,” I said, swallowing down my bile, “Provided we were both safe.”

He turned around, his face hidden from me.

“I’ll think about it,” he whispered, and strode out, leaving the door ajar.

The cigarette I smoked a few seconds later tasted of tears.


	18. Don't Answer Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These two are establishing a record for pointless time-wasting...
> 
> Next chapter will be from Elio's POV, so you'll finally understand what's going on in our drama queen's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't Answer Me - The Alan Parsons Project - 1984

_“Don't answer me, don't break the silence_  
_Don't let me win_  
_Don't answer me, stay on your island_  
_Don't let me in_  
_Run away and hide from everyone_  
_Can you change the things we've said and done?”_

 

That evening I moved back into my room.

I wasn’t fully convinced that it was a good idea, but I wanted to show Elio that I could be close to him and not cross the line.

At dinner, the table was crowded: some old friends of the Perlmans, a family from Mantua – parents and three young kids - were the centre of attention, pushing my concerns, and Elio’s, to the periphery of things.  They were so cheerful and boisterous; they made me feel even more depressed. I tried not to show it, talking of politics with the adults and feeding chips and ice-cream to their offspring.  Elio, perhaps aided by the wine, was in high spirits; he ignored me pointedly, and for once Annella and Samuel were not aware of it, distracted as they were by the welcome presence of small children. That consideration added to my gloom: Elio and I couldn’t build a family, not in the near future and perhaps never. I didn’t mind one way or the other, but I hated the idea of depriving Elio of that opportunity. Neither of us had siblings, which naturally made the situation worse.

When the liquors were served, I excused myself and went up to the attic to collect my belongings. Before leaving, I looked out of the window and smoked a cigarette.

I couldn’t believe that I’d proposed friendship with sex to Elio, as though I really believed it was feasible between the two of us. I’d have to stand it, if that’s what he decided. Or I could just tell him that I wanted him, all of him, and perhaps he’d say yes, but what then? What if he was agreeing only in order to fix the past? What if our moment had passed and it was already too late? That’s what he’d said, when he’d run out of the cloister that day: too late.

I had asked him a question, but I was almost hoping that he wouldn’t answer me.

 

I was taking my first shower of the day, when I heard a noise outside. I ignored it, but all my senses were on alert; I knew that it was Elio, even though I couldn’t see him because of the curtain drawn all around me. I said nothing and took longer than usual at washing my hair.

When I finally stepped out, he’d already gone.

On the sink, inside a pink plastic glass, was his toothbrush.

 

That wasn’t the only instance of his stealthy behaviour.

I had to walk past the bathroom in order to go out and some mornings he’d burst in, naked or wearing a towel low on his hips, and he’d mutter a distracted hello before turning to face the mirror or jumping inside the tub.

Once, I was sure that he’d been inside my room. Mafalda never touched my papers and books, but among the former was a copy of Nabokov’s Lolita that I’d not seen before. She might have found it while she tidied up and placed it there, but that seemed highly unlikely.

I was unsure what his message was, but it was clear that he was obeying my wishes and not giving me a straight answer.

 

He wasn’t always this elusive Elio; he was also the Elio who asked me to rub sun lotion on his back or the one who listened carefully while I read him an excerpt from my book. He could be serious one instant and a moment later he’d burst into giggles and lean against me; our gazes would lock and time would stop.

 

Two days after our chat in the cottage, I was helping Anchise in the orchard when Elio sidled up to me. It was mid-morning but hot enough that I was sweating profusely. He didn’t say anything for a while, so I turned to look at him. I caught him staring at my ass, or at least at the point where my ass would have been before I changed position. He bit his lips and I smirked.

“I have just finished transcribing something,” he announced, as he plucked an apricot from a low-hanging branch.

“Any good?”

I was being vague on purpose, but I figured that two could play that game.

“I’m not sure, but I was going to play it for the first time.”

“And you want me to listen to it?”

Anchise glanced at us and said nothing; I kept at my task, pretending that I wasn’t waiting for Elio’s reply.

“You have better things to do,” he said.

If Vimini had been there, her eye-roll would have been seen from space. She had been taken to Milan for another round of therapy. Her parents were cautiously optimistic, but that didn’t lessen my worries.

“I could do with a break and a glass of water,” I replied, “And I reek of sweat, just so you know.”

“Yeah, I can smell you from here,” he said, scrunching his nose, “I don’t mind, as long as you don’t stand too close to me.”

“I’ll sit in the armchair by the window.”

“That far away you won’t be able to hear,” he argued.

“I’m not yet deaf.”

Anchise was clearly amused: he waved us away with both hands, mumbling something in dialect which I interpreted as a valedictory to his misspent youth.

I followed Elio inside the living room: his notes were scattered atop the piano and there were other traces of his presence: a tray with a jug of lemonade and ice, a plate with the remains of bread and Nutella, a pack of Marlboros and a silver Zippo lighter.

“Are you familiar with Miroslav Kabeláč?” he asked, tracking my progress from door to armchair. I poured myself a glass of lemonade and took a long sip: it was a silly diversion, but I needed all the help I could get.

“Never heard of him,” I replied, as I perched upon the arm of the couch.

“He was Czech and died only five years ago,” he said, “He’s not nearly as famous as he deserves to be. This is a Passacaglia he wrote in the 1950s. Well, that’s part of my transcription.”

“What’s it called?”

He straightened his back then arched it like a cat stretching in the sun.

“Mystery of Time,” he replied.

There was a brief interval of silence then his fingers worked their magic.

 

Ten minutes later, I was close to tears.

Correction: I had been fighting them back from the start.

The music wasn’t excessively moving, but Elio’s emotional performance combined with the memory of the time he’d played Bach for me, were overwhelming. I lit a cigarette and hoped the smoke would serve as a disguise.

“What do you think?” he asked, after he was done.

“I’ve never heard the original, but I loved your arrangement,” I replied, noting that he too was unsettled.

“I must have the recording on a cassette, somewhere,” he said, “I could find it for you, if you like.”

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

He came up to me, stole my cigarette and left.

 

I feared the evenings most of all: it was then that Elio disappeared, and often without a trace.

The third evening after our conversation, I agreed to play poker with the same crowd that I’d occasionally frequented the previous summer.

It was past one in the morning when I stumbled out of the bar and went in search of the place where I’d parked my bike. I heard someone singing and when I turned the corner, there he was, sitting on the steps of an old building, playing guitar; he was in the company of two girls and a boy whom I have never seen before. One of the girls had long blond hair and was gazing at Elio with an adoring look on her face. From what I could gather, they were Elio’s age, but the girl could have been even younger. I hurried away before they could notice me.  

 

“I saw you last night,” I told him the following morning.

We were sunbathing by the pool and his foot had been caressing mine for a long while before I decided to speak out.

“When was that?” he enquired, lazily.

His eyes were shut and he didn’t open them when I replied to him. He didn’t explain what he’d been doing there or who his friends were; instead, he started to interrogate me.

“Playing poker again,” he said, “I hope you won, at least.”

“I did okay.”

“You never lose, do you?”

“I didn’t say that, but all in all, it was worth it.”

His hand collided with my forearm, as though by accident; he left it there, resting on my wrist. I willed my heart to stay calm, but when his thumb stroked my pulse point, I knew that resistance was futile. What if he knew? Let him. I had nothing to hide. He stopped as suddenly as he’d started.

“I’m not stringing you along,” he said.

I stared at him and he returned my gaze, serious and unflinching.

“I only need a little time to figure something out,” he concluded.

“We have time,” I replied. It was the last week in July, but this year I was staying until the end of August. “But don’t throw it away, that’s all I’m asking.”

He tilted his head to the side and kissed my shoulder.

 

And then came the time when I was out with Stefano and the others, and Lara, who was unable to keep secrets, told me that he’d seen Elio walking hand in hand with a blonde girl.

“Her name’s Susanna,” she said, “ _Susanna Tutta Panna_.” She explained that it was an Italian in-joke to indicate someone pure as the driven snow.

Stefano and Orietta were glaring at her, but she went on, blissfully unaware, “She is this annoying kid who used to date my cousin when they were both thirteen.”

“Why was she annoying?” I asked.

“Oh, you know, she was doting on him and he got bored.”

“I’m sure Elio will get bored too,” said Orietta, elbowing her friend and telling her to shut her big mouth.

I wasn’t nearly as certain as Orietta: Elio was in dire need of exactly that sort of unproblematic relationship. A beautiful young girl who worshipped him: I could hardly compete with that.

 

This game of cat and mouse went on for about a week, but to me it seemed an eternity.

At night, I often drank more than was healthy so that I could fall into a heavy sleep without having to toss and turn, wondering whether Elio had returned or if he’d stayed out with his girl.

Once or twice, alcohol wasn’t enough and I had to swallow a couple of Xanax to still my mind and dull the pain.

 

Incredibly, the time I spent with Patrice was like a peaceful refuge from the squalls. The two sittings became three then four, because he couldn’t get the colours right. My eyes troubled him, he said, and so did the hollow of my collarbones and the inside of my elbows.

His problems seemed almost comical to me, but while I was under his scrutiny, forced into stillness, I could imagine that nothing mattered other than the pursuit of artistic perfection. People could and would let us down, but a masterful work of art would always be there to console us.

Flavia popped in once or twice: she brought us iced beer or lemonade, and chatted with us briefly. Patrice was in awe of her opinion, but she did not take advantage of the power she seemed to have over him. I gathered that she sought to encourage not dominate him.

 

It was on the Friday that I decided that I needed to go away for a while.

Anchise had asked if I wanted to go fishing with him and his friend Paride. They had planned to drive to a lake in the vicinity and camp there for the week-end.   

Samuel lent me his fishing and camping gear and Annella asked Mafalda to prepare us a large basket of food and drinks. I bought a case of beer and a carton of Marlboros and packed my duffel bag with a minimal amount of clothes and other useful items.

Paride drove a minivan, so there was plenty of space for all our impedimenta.

Elio had been away since after lunch and I hoped we’d be on our way before he returned.

I was zipping up my bag when he barged into my room.

“Where are you going?” he asked, wide-eyed and frowning.

“On a trip,” I replied. I was surprised that he didn’t know but I concluded that he must have come in through the side door and slunk upstairs, unseen.

“With the guys?”

“Yes”

He picked up a pair of my shorts and threw them on the bed.

“Can I come with you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I could be ready in less than ten minutes,” he pleaded.

“You don’t like fishing and I’d rather you stayed here.”

“You are not going with Stefano and Daniele?”

I laughed.

“I’m going camping with Anchise and Paride.”

He shook his head.

“You must be crazy,” he said, but he was smiling.

“Yes, I must be,” I agreed.

“When are you coming back?”

I told him.

“I’ll wait for you,” he said, “I’ll stay awake and wait.”

He had an answer for me, I thought, and wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hear it.


	19. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio's story, from his POV.
> 
> Remember my tag about Elio being a liar? There you go.
> 
> The next chapter will also be from Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obsession - Animotion - 1984
> 
> I had to mention Euro 1984 since the Italian team which won the 1982 WC did not qualify. I assume it must have been very disappointing for all football fans.

 

_“You are an obsession_   
_I cannot sleep_   
_I am your possession_   
_Unopened at your feet_   
_There's no balance_   
_No equality_   
_Be still I will not accept defeat”_

In Plato’s _Protagoras_ , Socrates argued that _akrasia_ – acting against one’s better judgment – wasn’t possible. I am living proof that he was wrong, since that’s how I’ve acted with Oliver, every step of the way.

From the moment I saw him, I was fascinated by him and that attraction soon turned into an obsession. What does Oliver think of me, was my constant preoccupation; I wanted us to be friends but didn’t behave like a friend: I avoided him, shrugged him off, refused to greet him when he came into a room. I attributed these slights to my inexperience and timidity: Oliver understood and forgave. When we got together at last, I kept lying, to myself and to him.

At first, I claimed that what I felt was only desire, but then I went as far as to justify my confession of worshipping him as a ruse to attract his attention: they were all lies.

I adored every single cell of his body, but I loved the man that he was even more.

 

I had never told him that I loved him not because it was obvious or for fear of giving too much away; the reason was far more devious: I had pretended that I could box that feeling and put it away once he was gone. I would render it episodic, like one of those portmanteau movies so popular in Italian cinema in the 1950s: there would be other stories and other lovers, and I’d be the only link between them. I would be the sole protagonist of this affair.

In Rome, I had caught a glimpse of the sexual freedom I could enjoy and found it exhilarating.

And then Oliver left, taking me away with him.

I spent days in a daze of despair, wondering why I had not said the words that mattered: come back to me, I need you, don’t ever leave me again.

 

He’d promised to come back at Christmas and even then I’d pretended I didn’t truly care one way or the other. When he phoned and announced his engagement, I congratulated him. I had the perfect excuse to erase him from my life: I could tell my parents and friends that I didn’t want to hear his name mentioned again. I was the victim, he was the two-faced scoundrel. But once again, I had not voiced my objections when he’d asked if I minded: yes Oliver, I do, because you belong to me only.

 

Patrice came into my life when I was at my lowest.

Since I had forbidden any mention of Oliver, I could imagine the worst: that he was already married, that his wife was pregnant, that he had forgotten me and regretted what had happened between us.

I needed to feel important, to make a difference, to matter.

Sex wasn’t a priority and despite finding Patrice attractive, I did not feel a fraction of the insane lust Oliver had elicited from me.

I had accepted Patrice’s physical distance in exchange for his devotion: I could be his friend and protector, and take care of him like I would have wished Oliver to do with me. I should have realised the fragile and illusory nature of our relationship, but like with all bubbles it was reality which pricked it.

The name of that reality was always the same: Oliver; his golden skin and broad shoulders, his large hands and rounded ass, his ocean-blue eyes and hairy chest.

At once, he was happening to me all over again.

He stood there, in my house, occupying the room that had been mine the previous summer, sleeping in the same bed.

The anger that I directed at him was in fact meant for me: why had I not known that I had not forgotten him? Why was he still everything and I had not realised it?

 

From that moment on, it was only a matter of time.

I was starved for his touch and he was on his own, half-naked on most days, available.

Like the eternal dissembler I was, I feigned to even dislike the smell of his sweat; that same sweat that made me instantly hard.

I wasn’t as drunk as he assumed when I went to find him in the attic. I also wasn’t ignorant of his presence: I knew that he would be there.

My plans had gone only as far as that, but I wanted his body, yearned for the brush of his skin against mine; I needed to kiss him and explode all over him.

 

In the meantime, Patrice had found someone who appreciated him like he deserved. I didn’t mind, I wished him to be happy. What I had not anticipated, was his shrewd reading of my nature. It was not pleasant to hear, but truth seldom is.

 

Oliver could belong to me again: I just needed to say the words.

Lost in contemplation of his statuesque body as he posed for Patrice, I lied to myself again. Lust and jealousy is all you feel, I repeatedly scribbled on my notebook; his flesh and his undivided attention: that is all you desire.

I was in charge of the situation, master of my emotions.

Only one final step was required to come full circle: I had to be him.

 

During my first summer of love, I had often wondered whether if I had been Oliver, I would cease obsessing over him. If only I had his strong muscles I wouldn’t long for them; if I had his experience and his nonchalance, I would stop envying them.

When I asked Oliver if he’d been mine only, he’d avowed that he’d made out with Chiara and some other girls. It was then that I’d resolved to follow in his footsteps.

Maybe, if I disappeared like he’d done, accepted invitations, stayed out for dinner, made new friends, became more popular and less dependent on his presence, I’d be finally free from this _idée fixe_.

 

It didn’t work, and how could it have? It was a castle of lies built on self-deception and wilful misrepresentation.

The company of other people – girls or boys – could never provide what Oliver gave me, because he was the only person in the world who’d really known me.

He had seen my pleasure and my shame: he’d shared them, instigated them, drunk them down while keeping his eyes open wide, never flinching or reproaching.

I was not the main actor in this affair, but rather one half of it, the other part being Oliver.

 

On Friday, Oliver went on a fishing trip with Paride and Anchise, and for the first time in weeks, I experienced his absence.

Several times, I had returned late at night pretending that the room next to mine was empty, that he was gone already. I’d been certain that I could take it, that I would be prepared for the sight of his packed bag on the bed, of his folded clothes piled upon the armchair. I had deceived myself and the awakening was brutal.

“Where are you going?” I asked, my heart thumping so loudly in my ears that I could hardly discern Oliver’s reply. At first, I feared that he was going camping with Stefano and his friends. The relief at finding out the truth loosened my tongue. I would wait for him, I'd said, all night if necessary.

He didn’t seem interested in what I had to say.

Had he given up on me for good?

 

I spent Saturday in a state of perpetual anxiety. I swam in the pond, tried to read the collection of poems Oliver had given me, played some Chopin on the piano, argued with Mafalda who scolded me for always forgetting to shut the door of the freezer. The weather was hot and humid; the hair so heavy it pressed down on my chest when I was lying on my bed.

Marzia and Raffaele came to dinner; he chatted with papà about football. Raffaele still hadn’t recovered from the fact that Italy had not qualified for the Euros and wasn’t at all happy about France winning. Dad was neutral, but he enjoyed being a contrarian, so he extolled the merits of Platini and Tigana while Raffaele scowled and shook his head.

 _Maman_ had gone to a pizzeria with a couple of friends, so it was just the four of us and Mafalda.

“Is that true about you and Susanna?” Marzia asked, as we attacked our _panna cotta_. “Lara said that she saw you two and that you were holding hands.”

In that case Oliver must have known too. Damn.

“It’s nothing,” I whispered, “We are just friends.”

“Like you and I were friends?”

“No, no, nothing’s happened. We’ve just made out once or twice.”

“And what about Patrice?” she enquired. I told her about Flavia and that he’d moved out and gone to stay at the old castle.

She seemed puzzled. “I always thought you and Oliver would find a way to be together.”

“He’s no longer engaged,” I blurted out. Her eyebrows shot up.

“Why are you not with him? Doesn’t he want to be with you?”

“It’s not,” I started, but didn’t really know how to continue, finally settling on, “We are figuring things out.”

She gave me a wry smile. “And that’s how you do it: you making out with a girl and him going fishing with two old men?”

“You should know me by now,” I grinned.

“Yeah, but Oliver might not,” she replied.

It hurt and strengthened my resolve.

 

Sunday, the sky was dense with clouds.

The weather forecast announced thunderstorms and strong winds.

“At least they haven’t gone boating,” I said.

Dad folded the newspaper he’d been reading and shot me a bemused glance.

“Paride has a boat,” he replied, “I thought Oliver had told you.”

“What?” I shrieked, louder than I’d intended.

“But he’s quite experienced and it won’t be the first time he’s been out during a storm.”

I was already predicting tragedy. A year ago, I had imagined Oliver’s dead and swollen body with something like relish; now, the mere idea filled me with horror. If anything happened to him, I would never--- but I couldn’t even contemplate the eventuality.

At four in the afternoon, the sky was dark and the distant rumble of thunder was fast approaching. The first drops were fat and clean; the ground smelled of gunpowder and freshly-mowed grass. After a timid start, it was the deluge.

Mafalda brought us a pot of Earl Grey and a box of white candles. The lights went out after the second bout of lightning. I wasn’t worried about the rain; it was the wind that terrified me. Once we’d had a storm of such violence that bicycles had been found embedded among the branches of tall oak trees and cars had capsized and been submerged by water.

“I’m so worried,” I told _maman_.

“They are going to be fine,” she replied, holding me tight.

She read out loud from “The Leopard” and the beautiful prose calmed me down. Oliver would have loved it too, and it was almost like having him there.

 

It was ten when the storm finally subsided.

The garden and the orchard looked like they’d been trampled on by giant creatures.

“Anchise will have his work cut out for him,” _papà_ said, glumly.

“I wish they were back already.”

He patted my shoulders.

“They must have waited for it to stop,” he replied.

 

Like I’d promised Oliver, I didn’t go to sleep that night.

I wove in and out of a fitful doze, but never lost consciousness.

It was gone three in the morning when I heard the screeching of tires on gravel.

I went to the balcony and saw him get out of the minivan. Anchise was limping but he was in one piece and as for Paride, he’d been driving so he was surely alright.

Dad must have been waiting for them too, because he emerged from the house and grabbed hold of Oliver’s gear. They chatted briefly and I gathered that Oliver had told my father that he was okay and that the older men needed his help more than Oliver did.

 

I ran into his room and waited for him in the dark.


	20. Closest Thing to Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and smut, and the world has been righted again...
> 
> Not much talking because... why would they? 
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Closest Thing to Heaven - Kane Gang - 1984

_“This could be_   
_The closest thing to heaven_   
_I have ever known (I've ever known)”_

 

I opened the window and the cool night air was laced with the fragrance of lavender and jasmine.

Oliver’s footsteps resonated in the silence and I was sick with fear and anticipation.

He opened the door and went for the light switch.

“Don’t,” I said, and put on the night light instead.

He was dishevelled and his sweater was ripped in several places. His sweatpants were caked with mud and his shoes were in no better state.

I could tell that he was exhausted and not in the mood for conversation.

“Elio,” he sighed, “Can we not do this now?”

I hesitated for a beat or two then run into his arms.

“You are back,” I exclaimed, stupidly. He held me close, but when my grip tightened, he winced.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied, “Just a few bruises. We were already packed when the storm hit, but we stayed on to help other people. Stuff was flying all over the place. It was crazy.”

I took him by the hand and steered him towards the door which led to my room; he resisted and when I turned to reason with him, I saw the expression on his face and wanted to slap myself, hard, for having put it there.

“I’m not sure that I,” he said, “I was planning to kick off my shoes and sleep with my clothes on.”

“You can do that in my room,” I replied, “I’ll give you a hand.”

I realised how ambiguous that might sound, but I meant it in every possible way.

Still, he wouldn't budge.

“You want to sleep and I have a bigger bed.”

“Your bed is the same size as mine.”

“There’s two of them pushed together,” I said, “And I’ve changed the sheets just for you.”

At last, he offered me a timid smile.

“You mean Mafalda did,” he said.

“O ye, of little faith,” I quoted, relishing the chuckle I got in return. “Come on, voyager.”

He followed me, but when we crossed the threshold, his mood changed again. He was staring at the bed, with its yellow sheets that he evidently remembered, and at the Oxford light on the bedside table.

“It’s almost the same,” he murmured.

I could see now how gaunt he looked.

“Sit on the bed; I’ll take your shoes off,” I said.

“I stink like a sewer,” he replied, as he appropriated the same side as the previous year, “You hate it when I’m sweaty.”

I kneeled down at his feet and gazed up into his tired eyes.

“Yeah, it’s disgusting,” I said, pressing my cheek to the inside of his thigh and inhaling. His muscles tensed then relaxed, and I could hear his heart thumping. At the same time, his hand found the back of my head and his fingers brushed through my curls.

We didn’t speak yet I felt at peace, and I was certain that he did too.

After a short while, I unlaced his shoes and removed them, together with his damp socks. His feet were soft and warm; I’d have kissed them, but I didn’t want to get side-tracked.

I helped him get rid of his pants and sweater and tried not to let him notice how it affected me to be that close, to be able to touch his skin without having to pretend that it was accidental.

After the first shock of proximity abated, my attention was captured by the constellation of bruises on his arms and shoulders; the largest one was underneath his ribcage, on the right-hand side.

He lay down gingerly, biting his lips as his back hit the mattress.

“Does it hurt if I do this?” I asked, and brought my lips to the livid smudge on his collarbone.

“Elio,” he breathed, and I took it as a plea to not stop.

I kissed every inch of injured skin and might have cheated a little, considering that there was nothing wrong with his nipples or the hollow of his throat.

As I stretched out by his side, and took his face in my hands, he closed his eyes.

“That wasn’t,” he said, “That better not be ‘friends with benefits’.”

I stroked the bridge of his nose with the tip of mine.

“Whoever put that stupid notion on the table,” I replied, “Must have been an idiot.”

“Don’t insult my-” he stopped and opened his eyes; his gaze searched mine. I let him find his answer, which he eventually did, because he smiled widely and pulled me on top of him.

“Ouch,” he cried out.

“Tomorrow,” I said, and he nodded, letting his eyes fall shut again.

I switched the light off, wrapped myself around him, and watched him fall asleep.

 

I woke up with the ghost of fingertips upon my cheeks.

Oliver smiled at me, but uncertainly, as though he was waiting for my cue to decide what to do or say. I smiled back and nuzzled his neck.

“You’ve washed,” I mumbled against his prickly throat.

“I didn’t shower,” he replied, “But I got up to piss, so I took care of a few other things besides.”

“Let me see.”

I pulled down the sheet which covered us and contemplated his bruised body in the daylight.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve wrestled with King Kong,” he said, “But I’ll survive.”

“It’s... hot, very hot.”

He ran his lips across my forehead.

“It doesn’t put you off,” he said, more than a little surprised.

“You know me,” I replied, and it wasn’t meant in the usual, trite way.

“I thought I did,” he said, “But I’m no longer sure.”

The sheet was fully discarded and I saw that he was naked. He must have shucked his boxers when he’d gone to the bathroom.

I didn’t think or speak or seek his permission: I held his hardness in my hand and brought my mouth to it. I made love to it; I’d missed it so badly I’d nearly gone crazy for lack of it. Oliver was moaning and writhing and trying not to grab me by the hair – sweet silly man - as though he’d forgotten how wet it made me when he forced me down a little. I was out of practice, and gagged at first when I tried to stuff my throat full of cock, but I loved every choking inch of it.

The smell of him was as intoxicating as his taste, and I lost trace of time until he stiffened and warned me, frantically and in vain. He came and came, and I was in heaven. As close to it as I'd ever get.

“Trying to kill me?” he was panting and flushed red down to his chest.

I licked my lips then shoved my tongue inside his mouth, wanting more of his taste, of his warmth, more Oliver. He gave as good as he got, then he slowed things down; the kiss deepened and the bites went from famished to playful.

“What was the hurry?” he asked, low and hoarse.

I raked my fingers through his hair and admired the limpid blue of his eyes.

“It’s been a year,” I replied, sounding as though I’d smoked a pack of Gitanes, “We’d waited long enough.”

He became serious.

“You were making out with a girl,” he said, “I don’t want to know why, but it was you that stayed away.”

“You don’t want to know why,” I repeated, staring him straight in the eye, “Liar.”

Oliver gathered up the sheet and draped it over his crotch. Well played, Elio.

“It doesn’t mean that I don’t care,” he said, keeping his distance, “But if you need to be with a woman, it’s not my place to-”

I put my finger on his lips to silence him. There were so many words to say, long and complicated explanations, but this wasn’t the time.

Instead, I traced the contours of his face, the line of his nose, the groove of his philtrum; when I reached his mouth, he licked the tip of my finger. I stared at his tongue then upward, into his eyes; he sucked the digit down, lapping and flicking at its underside. My arousal, which had briefly subsided during our conversation, was back with a vengeance. I wanted his spit and his warmth all over me, but I didn’t want him to be in pain. The decision was taken for me: he was as eager and relentless as I had been with him. He made quick work of my shorts and, as my dick bounced free, he uttered a sound, like a prolonged groan, which made me harder still. The moment I was inside him was like coming home, like I’d been holding my breath for months and was, at last, free to exhale.

Oliver, Oliver, Oliver: I couldn’t tell whether it was I or my blood singing his name.

 

“Am I hurting you?” I was lying in his arms, my head on his chest. He was stroking my hair and neck.

“Worth it,” he murmured, “But I really need a wash.”

I buried my nose in the patch of hair at the base of his throat.

“I want to live here,” I announced, and felt him shake with laughter.

“Maybe you could have a bath,” I suggested, “I’ll go get us something to eat.”

“Food in the bathroom?” he grimaced.

“Not eggs and toast, maybe,” I conceded, “But a fruit salad and coffee?”

“Sounds great,” he replied.

I left him there and, after pissing and taking a quick shower, I ran him a bath.

 

I returned with a tray laden with fresh coffee, orange juice, and two bowls of fruit salad. I had eaten my bread and Nutella downstairs, while my parents talked of anything but Oliver’s present location; that avoidance alone told me that they knew about us and that they would wait for us to broach the subject.

 

“Are you decent?” I asked from outside the door.

“Never,” he replied.

He was still inside the bath and his hair was slicked back and wet. I wanted to lick the drops that were travelling down his neck. The sandal oil produced no foam, so I could see him in all his glory: he was black and blue, but nothing else mattered; only that he was here and that I could have him again.

“What you got?” he asked, and immediately swiped a cup of coffee from the tray.

He drank it avidly and sighed.

“Bless Mafalda and her strong espresso,” he said, “How is Anchise?”

“Dad said that he has a swollen ankle but refuses to rest and is already out and about.”

Oliver laughed, “And here I am, behaving like an invalid.”

I took the cup from him, placed the tray on the low stool and sat on the rim of the tub.

“You were pretty active before,” I said, squeezing his biceps. I couldn’t quite believe that he was letting me touch him.

“You made it very difficult for me,” he replied, “I hadn’t had--- that in a very long time.”

My hand migrated to his chest and stroked the matted hair on his pectorals.

“With another man, you mean?”

“With anyone,” he said, taking my hand in his and weaving our fingers together.

“But I thought that with,” I couldn’t say her name.

“Not for a while. I couldn’t, I tried but it didn’t work.”

“Because of me?” I asked, but what I meant was, ‘Do I matter so much to you?’

“Yes,” he said, his gaze fixed on our joined hands.

“I didn’t, with that girl, it was only, we made out a few times, that’s all.”

“You were on top of her, that night,” he argued, before shaking his head, “It’s none of my business.”

“So you’re not jealous, right?”

He chewed on his lower lip and pierced me with his stare, the same unwavering one which had humbled and petrified me when I hadn’t yet known its meaning.

“If you were my boy again, I’d punish you for that,” he husked. “Are you my boy?”


	21. High on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for smut and tooth-rotting romance.
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High on You - Survivor 1984

_"Piercing eyes, like a raven_  
_You seemed to share my secret sin"_

 

I wasn’t lying when I told Elio that I felt punch-drunk, and it wasn’t only because of my bruised body. I’d been dreading the conversation that was waiting for me upon my return, expecting Elio’s anger, his disillusionment and perhaps, his decision that we’d better stay friends and forget all the rest.

The last thing I’d have anticipated was the tenderness he showed me, which I was afraid to accept at face value in case I woke up the following morning and he’d be gone.  
I hadn’t the strength to resist him, and my body wanted his so desperately that holding back would have been like trying to prevent a sponge from soaking up water: pointless. All my attempts at harnessing the power he had over me had been fatuous and counter-productive; I’d wasted precious time pretending that I had a choice when I had none.

As for Elio, that night in the attic he’d told me what he wanted.

 _If I were your boy again, I’d do anything you asked and more_ , he’d said.

During the few weeks we’d been together, we had done things to and for one another that many people never do over a lifetime. There was no distaste or shame between us; everything was permitted as long as we both wanted it. But one thing that I had never allowed myself was exerting dominance over him; it seemed too close to manipulation, a stealthier form of abuse. Besides, Elio enjoyed being on top; he’d been the one to suggest it and I had gladly given in. I’d loved it, had taken infinite pleasure in it. But I had refused to consider that it might not have been what Elio truly needed.

His mother had told me that he’d push until I pushed back, because that was the way he behaved with those he loved and respected; those he looked up to.

Instead of doing that, I’d run away, and when I’d finally come back, I'd let him down again.

Luckily, I’d been granted another chance and I would not let it go to waste.

 

 

“Are you my boy?” I asked, watching his eyes widen and a blush spread on his cheeks.

“Yes,” he whispered. He was already breathing fast.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes,” he repeated, louder. There was defiance in his gaze but I wasn’t fooled as to its true meaning.

“Take you shorts off,” I ordered, as I lay back and stared him straight in the face.

Elio could see that I was aroused and I spread my legs a little wider so that he could enjoy a better view.

He stood up and removed the garment in question.

“Clasp you hands behind your back,” I said, “You won’t speak or touch yourself.”

I read his thoughts. “And you can’t come close to me or shut your eyes. All you have to do is stand there and watch. Is that understood?”

He nodded his head, his upper lip trapped between his teeth.

I didn’t intend to put on a show for him; that would have defeated my purpose. I wanted him to play passive witness to my pleasure, and to know that he could not be part of it. His cock was plumping up and twitching at my words. Soon, it would be fully erect and he would be desperate for any kind of relief.

I let most of the water drain away until my crotch was no longer submerged then I slicked my fingers with sandal oil.

As soon as I closed my fist around my length, a loud whimper escaped me. I kept my eyes on Elio’s face to make sure he was doing as told: he was licking his lips with a pained expression, and I nearly lost my nerve.

I used both hands to make sure my balls were taken care of and I forgot about the pain which still shot through my body as I thrust into my tight grip; the squelching of flesh on flesh, the groans and moans which left my mouth, the splashing of water as my ass and legs banged against the tub, were not as perceptible to me as the sibilant noise coming from Elio’s open mouth. He was shaking and his cock was pointing at me, dribbling and in dire need of attention. I knew he wouldn’t last and I was as far gone, so I sped things up, arching and stroking and fingering, until my orgasm hit me like a kick in the gut. I managed to stay open-eyed and was rewarded by the sight of Elio’s reaction, by his hooded gaze and bucking hips, by the redness that painted his chest and the cry that finally tore from his throat.

“Come here,” I gasped, and he almost threw himself at me.

A few seconds later, he was straddling my thighs and licking my load off my chest, while I furiously pumped his cock. When he came, he buried his face in my neck and mouthed something against it.

I knew those three words so well: they were etched in my heart, along with his name.

 

“You took your revenge,” he said, later, while we showered. “You were trying to kill me or torture me.”

I kissed his lips and the tip of his nose.

“It was punishment,” I replied, “It’s supposed to be unpleasant.”

He grabbed a handful of my ass and gritted his teeth.

“Watching you jack off,” he hissed, “Without being able to touch you. Yeah, you were trying to kill me.”

I pulled him against me and he wrapped his arms around my neck.

“If you didn’t enjoy it,” I murmured in his ear, “You better tell me.”

This wasn’t a game; it wasn’t a pastime to be indulged when we had nothing better to do: it was the unveiling of our true nature and the acceptance of what bonded us together.

He tilted his face up and stared into my eyes; he was serious and had never looked more beautiful, even with his curls plastered to his head.

“I am your boy,” he said, “Don’t ever leave me again.”

I couldn’t if I wanted to, and I’d never want to, not if my life was staked on it.

“I won’t,” I whispered, and slid my tongue inside his waiting mouth.

 

“We better go downstairs or your parents will think that I’ve kidnapped you,” I joked, once we were dressed and lying down in bed again.

“No, they’ll think I’m keeping you prisoner,” he said, caressing my neck. He’d massaged Arnica cream on my bruises because, according to Mafalda, it was a miraculous remedy. I recalled the witch’s remedy Anchise had given me when I’d scraped my hip and wondered what was going on with those two and their magic potions.

Elio had mocked my excessive rationalism and I had kissed him quiet. It was as though I’d woken up in an alternative universe, one where I could get anything I wanted without having to ask.

“I should give Anchise a hand in the orchard,” I said, “There’s plenty to do and he’s injured.”

“Look who’s talking,” he argued, “You can’t be running around in your condition.”

“It’s nothing,” I insisted, “Plus you could help me. All those spoiled peaches lying on the ground and you so fond of them...”

He bit my jaw and I tickled him until he was giggling and begging me to stop.

“I thought you’d forgotten about that,” he said. I brushed a wayward curl from his eyes and shook my head.

“And why would I do that? It’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever experienced.”

He took my hand and dotted its palm with kisses.

“Yeah, and what are the others?” he asked, obviously wanting to know about my sexual experiences.

“Nothing quite compares,” I replied, “I’ve had so many of my firsts with you.”

“I will make you talk,” he smiled, “you know that, right?”

He had a point: we still needed to have that conversation, so that we could clean the air, move on and never look back.

“What about tonight?” I suggested, “We could meet in the attic after dinner and talk until we are both satisfied.”

We shook hands on it and I was rather pleased with myself that I’d avoided the dreaded cliché of meeting at midnight: once had been more than enough.

 

“Oliver!” Annella exclaimed as soon as I got out the door and into the garden.

Elio was already sitting at the table and eating bread sticks with an air of utter indifference to what was going on around him; the sneaky little minx.

I kissed her on both cheeks and noticed that she was beaming: of course she knew.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, “Anchise said you were a hero.”

Elio snorted.

“No, not even a bit of a hero,” I replied, sitting opposite him. Immediately, his foot came to rest upon mine. I resisted the impulse to shift closer and poured myself a glass of chilled white wine. “I did what I could, but the storm was almost as strong as a tornado. I was glad it wasn’t your car we were driving, but Paride’s minivan.”

“I’d love to see you drive a minivan,” Elio said, trying and failing to stay serious, “Or one of those Ape 400, like the one my great-uncle used to have.”

I had spotted a few of those in Crema, they were three-wheeled vehicles which were hardly suited to a man my size.

“Not happening,” I said, “But I could rent a Vespa and drive you around.”

I could tell that he loved the idea, but that he was going to pretend that he didn’t care one way or the other.

“Maybe later,” he replied, “When you have recovered from being such a hero.”

Annella smiled like the cat that got the cream.

 

I convinced Anchise to sit on a straw-backed chair under the linden tree while we gathered the fruit that were scattered all over the place.

Most of them were salvageable and I looked forward to the prospect of plentiful fresh juice.

Vimini turned up late in the afternoon, wearing a fetching yellow hat. She appeared to be in good health and well-rested.

She hugged me and I stiffened a bit.

“What’s going on?” she enquired.

I told her of our adventure, while Anchise protested and prodded his ankle, which had been expertly bandaged by Mafalda.

“Were you with him too?” she asked Elio, who replied that no, he had not come with us. She frowned and eyed us suspiciously.

“How’s Patrice?” she looked closely at Elio; he shrugged his shoulders, “He’s okay isn’t he?” he flipped the question at me.

“He was great the last time I saw him,” I said, “He loves staying at the old castle.”

Vimini grinned and emitted a theatrical sigh.  

“About time,” she exclaimed, and flopped down on the ground, crossing her legs and plucking an apricot from my basket.

“It’s not been washed,” I said.

She tut-tutted, brushed the plump fruit against her shorts a couple of times and bit into it.

“You missed that one,” she told me, pointing her finger towards a peach which had rolled into a grass patch.

From that moment on, Anchise left her in charge and went back to his shed to sharpen his tools.

 

Before dinner, Elio demanded I moved my things into his bedroom.

“Mafalda will notice,” I argued. I was delighted at his request and he was aware of it.

“She knows already and so do my parents,” he replied, folding my khaki pants over his arm and fingering the fabric.

“They suspect, but they can’t be sure.”

He chuckled, “Dad asked me whether you’d slept well or if you were in too much pain.”

I nearly choked on my spit. “And what did you reply?

“I told him the truth,” he said, with a wicked grin, “That I had no idea, because I was already asleep when you returned. He didn’t believe me.”

Everything was going so well, I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting in the attic. Would I still be this happy tomorrow, I wondered.

 


	22. Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys are finally talking, yes!!
> 
> Naturally, they do get side-tracked, but that's only to be expected...
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words - F.R. David 1982 - yep, this one is in CMBYN

_“Words don't come easy_  
_Words don't come easy to me_  
_This is the only way for me to say I love you_  
_Words don't come easy”_

Vimini stayed with us the entire afternoon and refused to go home for dinner.

I called her parents to tell them that I would take their daughter home at a reasonable hour.

Mafalda cooked us grilled fish and stuffed tomatoes, and an apricot _crostata_ with ice-cream for dessert.

The weather had returned to normal, but it wasn’t as humid as before the storm.

“I was thinking of going to the cinema,” Samuel said, causing a mild sensation. He’d never mentioned the movies before, and that one time Elio and I had gone the previous summer, he hadn’t seemed in the least interested.

“Tonight?” asked Elio, who was as surprised as me, “Isn’t it too late?”

“The last show is at ten, so there’s plenty of time,” replied his mother.

There was an Ingmar Bergman retrospective in Crema, she explained, and she really wanted to see _Persona_. This evening was the only time they were showing it.

“May I come too?” asked Vimini.

“Next time,” Annella said, smiling, “It's going to be too late for you; surely past midnight.”

She grumbled, but did not insist.

“You wouldn’t like it, anyway,” said Elio, who enjoyed teasing her once in a while.

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t have an actual story. And not much talking either.”

She scowled at him.

“I’m not a child,” she said, “And I have seen Fanny and Alexander last Christmas.”

“Didn’t you find it boring?”

“Not as boring as this conversation.”

We all laughed, including Elio.

I suspected that they had decided to go away for the evening in order to leave us alone; I didn’t doubt that they wanted to see the film, but in other circumstances they would have asked us to join them.

 

Like I’d promised, I accompanied Vimini home just as the clock struck nine.

“Elio is annoying, but he can be nice, sometimes,” she said, before hugging me goodnight.

“He was doing it on purpose,” I replied, handing her the yellow hat she’d been wearing that afternoon, “He believes you are a genius; that’s the first thing he told me about you.”

“That’s one thing he is not,” she joked, “Or it wouldn’t have taken him so long to understand that you were here for him.”

I wanted to tell her that life is more complicated than that, but in all honesty she was right that we’d made it more difficult that it needed to be.

When I returned, I heard the car as it drove away.

Mafalda had already cleared the table and Elio was sitting there, drinking wine and writing on his notebook.

He didn’t hear me approach, and he jumped when I touched him on the shoulder.

“Is that about me?” I asked, pointing at his pad.

“Yeah, I’m reporting all your heroic deeds,” he replied, “Think of me as a modern Homer and of yourself as a latter-day Achilles.”

I pinched his glass and drained it in one gulp.

“More punishment?” he suggested.

“You tell me.”

The night was all around us and the only light came from the villa. Mafalda was in the kitchen, but soon she would go up to her room and we’d be completely alone.

I sat next to him, brushed away the curls which had fallen over his eyes and kissed his cheek.

“Would you like some more wine?” I whispered.

“Yes,” he replied, licking my lips until they parted and let him in.

We shared long, deep kisses, drawing breath for a matter of seconds only to fall into each other again, and again.

“I had an idea about a composition,” he said, when we finally drew apart. He was sitting in my lap and I had my arms around his waist. He had messed up my hair the way he liked it and was contemplating the result, tousling it some more.

“Is that new?” I asked, and he nodded, “I couldn’t write before, couldn’t think.”

“Maybe I had the same problem with my book.”

“But you said that being here helped you.”

“Because you are here,” I said, nuzzling his throat.

“It wasn’t enough for me,” he argued, “You being here was a distraction rather than an inspiration.”

I bit the tender skin underneath his jaw.

“What you are really saying is that you missed a special part of me.”

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled.

“Why, are you denying it?”

He sulked but I tickled him until there were happy tears in his eyes.

“It’s offensive,” he gasped, “To say that I only wanted your dick.”

I assumed a shocked expression, pressing the palm of my hand to my chest.

“My heart, that’s what I meant,” I exclaimed.

“You dirty liar,” he said, rubbing his ass against my not-so-soft groin.

I tickled him some more and he tugged at my hair; we would have ended up wrestling if I hadn’t grimaced in pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” he pleaded, looking mortified.

“Don’t be,” I reassured him, “I started it and anyway it’s nothing.”

He raised the hem of my shirt to uncover the large bruise on my side.

“You need more Arnica,” he stated.

“That’s just a ploy to get me naked.”

He sniffed, “Like I need it.”

“What are you implying?”

“You almost accepted to pose naked for Patrice.”

He stood up and looked me in the eye.

“I did not _almost_ anything. I refused in the first place.”

“But you would have done it if I had asked you to.”

I thought about it and wondered whether I’d have accepted only to provoke Elio’s reaction.

“No, not even in that case. It would have made me too uncomfortable and it would have been nearly impossible to disguise my interest in you.”

He leaned down and brought his lips to my nape.

“Talking about your heart again?”

I laughed. “Yeah, it would have beaten way too hard.”

Elio started doing something sinful to my hair; I had a weakness for it being stroked and pulled, and he remembered only too well which buttons to push.

“Did I make it hard for you when I touched my foot?” he murmured, while he continued his ministrations. My jeans felt too tight, so I spread my legs to ease the growing discomfort.

“Very hard,” I replied, “That’s why I was so sweaty afterwards, which you complained about.”

He kissed the top of my head. “I wasn’t complaining, quite the opposite.”

The situation was spinning out of control.

“If you still want to talk,” I started, but he reached over and placed his hand on my crotch. He palmed my erection and moaned softly.

“You looked so huge in that Speedo,” he said; his mouth was close to mine; he stuck out his tongue and licked the corner of my lips.

I turned my head and pulled him into a messy, disjointed kiss.

 

At some point, we made it back into the house and with our virtue at least partially intact. My underpants had a sizeable wet spot and his erection was still tenting his shorts as we walked through the door.

There was no real need to go up to the attic, since no one was around to hear us, but Elio wanted to keep the discussion away from our bedroom and I thought it was a good idea.

After we’d both used the bathroom, I told him to wait for me upstairs.

He complied, with a slight smirk on his lips.

There were a few things I needed, including condoms and KY, because that’s how I hoped the evening would end. I tried not to think about it, since the mere idea made me dizzy with want. Nothing compared to the feeling of sinking into Elio, to the way his body opened up to receive mine.

I changed into a pair of sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt and headed up to the attic.

 

“I can’t believe that we are here again,” he said, when I closed the door behind me. “I waited for you that night, but you never came.”

“You were asleep when I got in.”

“And you left me here?”

I cupped my hands around his face.

“I didn’t want to wake you and have a big ugly shouting match.”

“It wouldn't,” he said, closing his eyes, “I only wanted to explain that it wasn’t what you thought it was.”

“And what was it?”

He moved away, walking up to the window. I went to him and offered him a cigarette; I lit it then did the same with mine.

“Last year, you kept so much from me,” he said, as he puffed out a curlicue of smoke, “We barely talked.”

“We were talking all the time.”

“Not about the important things, like you having a girlfriend. And yes, I know, you were on a break, but you should have mentioned her anyway.”

“Yes, I know. It’s just that we were in our perfect little world and I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You said the same thing when we were in Rome, on that first evening.”

I remembered all too well, the anguish I felt at witnessing his popularity; everybody loved him and I was only the hand on his waist; somebody else was already catching his attention, and it was fine, because Elio was enchanting and could have whatever and whomever he wished for.

“I made mistakes too,” he conceded, “I should have insisted until you told me the truth. And I should have told you how I felt, but I was so happy I didn’t understand that you were slipping away from me, right from the start.”

He was so wise, my Elio, so much wiser than me.

“You are always running from something, and I was, too.”

I swung round so that I could look at him.

“What were you running from?” I asked, fearing the answer a little.

“The same thing,” he smiled, “What I felt for you.”

“You were the one who spoke first,” I said, “You were brave every step of the way.”

He shook his head and placed his hand on my chest.

“Maybe that’s how I acted, but inside my head... it was a giant mess.”

We finished smoking and chucked the scorched filters out of the window.

I had taken a bunch of miniature whiskies with me and I handed him one. We sat on the mattress, side by side and with our backs against the wall.

The liquor made him bolder.

“You seemed so unattainable, so far above me,” he said, “Impossibly handsome, clever, athletic, uber-popular Oliver.”

I snorted loudly.

“That’s what you were to me. For a very long time I believed that if I could only be you, I wouldn’t need to have you.”

Understanding dawned on me, suddenly.

“You wanted to do with that girl what I had done with Chiara last summer.”

He opened a second bottle and sipped from it.

“I’m a terrible person,” he murmured.

“It wasn’t your fault, but mine.”

“You have to stop doing that,” he said, as I plucked the bottle from his fingers and drank it down. “You are not responsible for my actions, I am. And yes, it hurt to be without you, but it doesn’t excuse my behaviour with Susanna.”

“Did you tell her about me?”

His hand was on my thigh, squeezing it lightly, in a very distracting manner.

“I told her that I was trying to get over somebody and that night when I ran after you, she put two and two together.”

“And she wanted to help you forget about me.”

“As if I could ever do that,” he smiled, and I covered his hand with mine. For a while, we both stared at our hands: mine so big, dark and hairy, and his, slender, elegant and lily-skinned. He was biting his lips and I was losing the will to resist.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” he said, as we locked eyes again, “Not from myself and not from you.”

“After I left Lucy, I went to a gay bar,” I blurted out, “I wanted to be sure. Nothing much happened and it only made me feel worse.”

“So it didn’t resolve your doubts?” he asked, frowning.

 “Yes, it did,” I replied, making sure that he could see that there were no more screens between us, “It made me realise that I was still in love with you.”

 

 


	23. The Power of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More words and lots more love...
> 
> Mind the smut tag ;)
> 
> Oliver's POV at first. It changes to Elio's in the second part, which is clearly marked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Power of Love - Frankie goes to Hollywood - 1984
> 
>  
> 
> Peachful is not a word, I know :)

_“The power of love_  
_A force from above_  
_Cleaning my soul_  
_Flame on burn desire_  
_Love with tongues of fire”_

 

My body is yours and your body is mine, we’d repeated to one another the previous summer.

Elio had appropriated my shirt, I had eaten a peachful of his semen: we had connected in the most primal, elemental way.

We’d exchanged names, confused our identities, blurred our genders; what we had omitted wasn’t physical or emotional: we had evicted time.

By pretending that time didn’t exist, we had eluded all responsibilities.

Before we’d left for Rome, Annella had packed Elio’s bag, and she’d enquired how many days we’d spend together. Neither of us had wanted to quantify the hours we had left, measure the sand inside the hourglass.

Because of that constraint, we’d never spoken of love.

I had been certain of loving Elio and I’d believed – not always, but most days – that he’d returned my feelings. I’d also realised that I couldn’t tell him: it would have been too real and very unfair.

We had met, we had loved, we had lost: that’s how I had rationalised our affair later. Later.

Time had passed and I should have moved on, but how could I when my other self wasn’t with me?

Now that I finally told Elio how I felt, he stared at me in silence.

“You never said,” he murmured, after a while. He was fiddling with the frayed hem of my t-shirt and every brush of his fingers on my bare skin was charged with electricity.

“It was always true,” I said, taking his hand in mine again.

He drew a deep, shaky breath.

“When you got on that train, I thought I could face it. I convinced myself that I was prepared to watch you leave. You were with us for such a short time and we were together for two weeks,” he smiled softly, “Only two weeks - I kept telling myself - next to nothing. But I couldn’t forget, I thought about you all the time.”

“I did too,” I said, kissing his fingers, his palm, his wrist, “I wanted to tell you about the books I read, the people I met; discuss the news, laugh about silly things.”

“There were always songs on the radio which reminded me of us,” he went on, lowering his gaze and the tone of his voice, “But then you called and said you were getting engaged, so I thought it was just me.”

I couldn’t define Lucy and our relationship as a big mistake nor did I want to tell Elio about her, but he should at least be informed about the reasons behind my actions.

“My family is the opposite of yours,” I explained, “They won’t accept us, they never will. And the world being what it is these days, I was confused and afraid.”

“And you are sure now?”

He didn’t sound convinced.

“Absolutely certain,” I replied, firmly.

“And what if I told you that I am not?”

That was a tricky question: I couldn’t force him to trust me if he didn’t and even my insistence could be interpreted as prevarication.

“I can’t and won’t make you,” I said, “But it won’t change how I feel or what I want.”

“What do you want?” he asked, looking me in the eye.

Generic platitudes wouldn’t cut it this time; I had to be specific, so that he could tell that I was sincere.

“Samuel mentioned that you were coming to the States to study. You could stay with me, no strings attached. It may not work out, but at least we’d have tried to live together; not just the fun parts, but the boring ones too: doing the laundry, cooking, arguing over who’s taking out the garbage.”

He giggled.

“I can’t cook,” he said, “But I could ask Mafalda to teach me the basics.”

“You’ll end up by shouting at each other,” I chuckled, “Maybe I’ll do the cooking and you’ll wash the dishes.”

Domesticity shouldn’t have seemed that attractive, but I couldn’t wait to have all of it with Elio.

“I will start applying as soon as I get my diploma, but what if I get accepted some place other than New York?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” I replied, “But you could stay with me in the interim; if you want to.”

He stayed silent for a long while, pondering my suggestion; he was chewing his lips and stroking my hand; his heart was beating fast, but so was mine.

“You called me a kid so many times recently,” he said, “You might grow tired of me.”

“The reverse could also be true.”

He gave me a look which was as eloquent as an eye-roll.

“Look, we don’t know, nobody does,” I said, “But one thing I’m sure of: we’ll never run out of things to say or laugh about. And I’ll always want to touch you and kiss you.”

“I still don’t understand why,” he muttered, “I’m not much to look at.”

“That’s a ridiculous lie, but even if that were the truth, I’d still be drawn to you.”

I caught the instant his mood changed gears and went from serious to seductive; his face could be like an open book, when he allowed himself to be vulnerable.

“Show me,” he whispered; his breath tickled my neck and made me shiver.

I guided his hand to the waistband of my sweatpants; he took the hint and pulled them down. We were still sitting so he couldn’t remove them, but he saw what I was wearing underneath.

“You could finish what you started,” I said, glancing down at Elio’s feet.

He swallowed a couple of times; he was frozen to the spot but I knew what he needed. I rose up on my knees and, “Take them off,” I instructed him.

Immediately, he did as told, and soon I was down to my t-shirt and my black Speedo. I was growing harder with every breath I took and Elio’s eyes were glued to my crotch.

I sat opposite him and took one of his feet in both my hands; it was the one that he’d grazed; there was a thin red line, barely visible, but slightly raised and rough to the touch. I brought the foot to my mouth and licked the injured spot.

Elio moaned, so I did it again, but this time I sucked on it too.

“Let me feel you,” he said, his voice already hoarse and his eyes almost black.

I spread my legs and placed Elio’s foot on my groin; at once, I cursed and he let out a mewling whimper.

“Even bigger than it looks,” he whispered. I caressed his ankle and his calf, while he rubbed my dick with the ball and arch of his foot.

“Is this what you wanted to do that day?” I asked; I watched him through hooded eyes, intoxicated with desire. He nodded his head than asked me a silent question that I answered in the same vein.

Elegant like a ballerina, he folded both his legs, got on all fours and buried his face into my crotch. I angled my pelvis in order to give him easier access; he did not hesitate to take advantage of it: he got a mouthful of my cock and balls, soaking the swimsuit with his spit. I wanted his tongue on my skin, but we had time, and I didn’t intend this to be the main event.

I pulled him up and he let me; he wanted me to take charge.

“Let me undress you,” I said; he was pliant, but not passive; while I removed his top, he slid his hands under my shirt, seeking my nipples. He didn’t touch them, waiting for permission. I arched my back and he pinched the raised nubs, soothing them with his thumbs: the resulting shot of pleasure nearly finished me off.

He smirked and shot me a knowing glance: he remembered everything.

 

****

 

Oliver’s revelations had filled me with confidence.

Bookish knowledge could only take me so far: that was the lesson I had learned in the past twelve months.  

Getting to know the other, with his faults and his insecurities, is the quickest conduit to our own self.

I understood that he was mine, while before I’d only wished it to be true; I had felt it when we made love, but that was illusory too as it was dictated by the senses.

Listening to his plans for our future made me realise that he was always going to be there: he was present in every scenario I could devise; he was my friend, my brother and my lover; one day, if things changed, he would be my husband.

If I didn’t show my hand, it wasn’t because I wanted to keep him guessing; I’d been too impulsive already and I wanted this time to be different.

I would show him first then I would lay my truth before him, like a gift.

 

We had taken our shirts off and I was gaping at his torso, wanting to be all over it with every part of my body. He was so sexy, every single inch of him.

“Oh god,” I sobbed, when he enclosed me in his arms and the fur on his chest stroked my nipples. I was in his lap, naked, while he was only wearing his Speedo; the one that I had licked moments before, almost coming in my shorts.

He curled his hand around my neck; he could almost encompass it with just one hand: the thought made me wet. I didn’t have time to catch my breath, because he pushed his tongue inside my mouth and kissed me deeply; he wasn’t rough, but he was forceful and dominating; I responded in kind, giving him all he asked without hesitation. After minutes of this, my dick was slobbering on his stomach. He dipped his finger in the sticky pool and stuck it in his mouth.

“Hmm,” he moaned, as he sucked on it, hollowing his cheeks.

I was about to shove my tongue inside it too when he pushed me away, one hand flat against my chest

“No, no, no,” he crooned, and when he saw my disappointment, “Trust me?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, watching his finger as it was swallowed whole by his warm mouth. I knew what he meant to do, and felt my entire being clench in anticipation.

 

I was lying down on the mattress, high on the strongest desire I’d ever felt. It was as though I’d been dipped in hot and cold water: my skin was tingling and hardly knew what to do with myself.

Oliver took the condoms and lube out of his bag, but as he did that, he massaged my tummy, evidently aware that I desperately needed to be touched.

Before he kneeled on the mattress, he removed his Speedo and I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from whimpering.

“Don’t,” he said, “I want to hear you.”

His dick was so hard it stood up against his belly. I closed my eyes and let out a long moan. I didn’t see what he was doing and my moan turned into a scream when I felt his hand on my cock. He had smeared it with KY, and the slick pressure made my heart jump into my mouth.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, using his other hand to fondle my balls.

I was gonna come if he didn’t stop. I was gonna die if he did.

Suddenly, I felt his mouth on my inner thigh and his hands were clutching the back of my knees. I helped him out, folding my legs and holding them to my chest.

“Open your eyes,” he said, and when I looked into his face, I saw that he was licking his lips. “You okay?” he asked, to which I replied, “Yes, please,” because I’d waited for this for what might have been an eternity.

 

Oliver was a magnificent lover; I could not believe how lucky I was that among a world full of people, he had been the one I’d fallen for.

He gave me everything before I knew what I wanted. And god, how I wanted this: his tongue licking along my rim, sucking on it, opening me up, making love to me.

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver,” I chanted, as he devoured me, lapping at my tender skin as though it was the choicest dish he’d ever eaten.

I tried to keep still, but my body was thrashing and I had no control over its motions. I rubbed my nipples, my lips, my stomach, but I did not dare touch my dick; I was on edge already and if he kept going, I’d have shot my load too soon.

As my last resort, I pulled his hair, hard; he shoved his tongue deep inside me and when he finally raised his head, his face was flushed with lust.

“Now, please, now,” I begged, and Oliver’s dick, already sheathed and slippery with lube, slowly entered me.

We were in the same position we’d been when he’d taken me the first time, but I had nearly forgotten how painful it would be. I almost asked him to stop, and I knew that he would have, but he leaned down to kiss me and the new angle was pure, undiluted pleasure.

“Yes?” he asked, smiling.

“So huge, hmm, yes, yes” I mumbled, already lost in bliss.

He thrust in and out of me, shallow at first then deeper until he was fully inside of me. I squeezed his buttocks, his perfect rounded apricot, and I must have said it out loud because he giggled and kissed the bridge of my nose.

That moment of levity quickly passed, and I was begging him to take me, fuck me, make me come; he rammed into me, while I held onto his ass, pulling him closer still.

I came a few breaths before him, but when he convulsed inside and around me, I spurted some more, with less abundance, but so intensely that it could have been mistaken for a seizure.

Oliver collapsed on the mattress next to me, his cock still half hard and his chest rising and falling as he recovered his breath.

“Oliver,” I murmured, kissing his sweaty neck, “I love you, too.”


	24. I Might Have Been Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The honeymoon goes on but what will Elio decide?
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Might Have Been Queen - Tina Turner - 1984

We had made it back to our bedroom just before we heard the car pull over and Elio’s parents enter the house.

“Good timing,” he whispered, and I held the door to keep it from slamming. It did that sometimes, and it always caught me unawares. It was not unlike Elio: seemingly quiet yet ready to go out with a bang at the most unexpected time.

“I’ll get the Arnica,” he said, after we’d taken turns using the bathroom.

Making love to Elio had been everything I wanted it to be, but I would have preferred to be at the top of my condition. The bruises hurt, and while it wasn’t a sharp pain, the dull ache I felt was far from pleasant. Had I been fatalistic, I’d have taken it as a warning that our joys would always be underscored by sorrow.

“You are not too tired for this?” I asked him.

“I want to,” he replied, taking my shirt off and throwing it on the chair by the bed.

I sat instead of lying down, so that he could massage my front and back at the same time. Elio’s fingers were as skilled at this as they were at playing the piano. If I hadn’t been spent, I’d have been hard again. As it was, there was a suspicious tingling in my nether regions which I decided to ignore.

“Feeling good?” he said, talking softly, close to my ear, “Wanna do that with massage oil, one of these days.”

“Hmm, but I’ll do you too.”

He sniggered.

“You’ll do me?” he mocked. “Like tonight?”

“Only if you want to,” I replied. He was kneeling on the bed, behind me, and his hands were stroking my torso. I covered them with mine, and guided them to my upper chest. My nipples were raised and stiff and his skin was hot and slippery.

“From behind,” he husked, stroking the nubs without using his fingers, “I want you to do every inch of me.”

His length poked my back and I could not, would not ignore it. I turned around, pushed him down on his back and shoved his shorts down.

“Oliver,” he moaned, grabbing a fistful of my hair, as I took him into my mouth. This was heaven, I thought, not for the first – or last – time. The salt and musk of him were at once familiar and striking; I could never get enough of him, of this.

He came with a muffled cry and insisted on kissing me immediately after to savour us, blended together in my mouth.

“Your turn,” he said, when our lips parted.

“I’ll take a rain-check,” I replied, kissing the frown on his forehead.

“Old man,” was his comment, but he let himself be enclosed inside my arms and in that position we fell asleep.

 

I woke to the sensation of being lightly poked along my shoulders.

“What are you doing?” I asked, noticing that Elio’s legs were tangled with mine.

“Counting the freckles on your back,” he replied, “And now that you are awake, I can kiss them.”

“You were never so chipper this early in the morning.”

“It’s almost ten,” he argued.

“Practically dawn, for you.”

He brought his lips to my nape and bit down on it.

“Ouch! I was only telling the truth.”

“Well, we have less than a month to spend together and I intend to make the most of it.”

A month, he’d said, and that was true, but it also meant that he’d not made up his mind about my suggestion. He’d not given me a reply yet and I knew he wanted to talk it over with his parents. I wasn’t going to put any pressure on him, but the thought of being apart from him again made me anxious. I had not felt like that before, when my mind had not been fully made up. Now that the words had been spoken, I wondered how I’d ever accepted to leave Elio without any certainty as to when I’d see him again. It was Rome all over again: that last morning, staring at him as he slept and feeling as though I’d never be whole again.

“You okay?” he asked, as I turned round to look at him. He was clear-eyed and rosy-cheeked, as though he’d slept like an innocent.  He looked preoccupied and very young. I caressed his face and he smiled.

“Not as fresh as you, but I’m old, so that’s only normal,” I joked.

“I can bring you coffee like yesterday, if you want. You can have breakfast in bed every day,” he said, trailing soft fingers down my bare chest and making me shudder.

“Am I going to be treated like a king?”

“You’d look amazing in a crown.” There was a glint in his eyes, as though he was really considering the possibility.

“Maybe for Halloween,” I suggested, “and you could be my queen.”

He erupted in a fit of giggles.

“I’ve never worn make-up,” he said, still gasping a little, “No, wait, only once, for a school play. I was dressed as a sunflower, so I had yellow paint all over my face.”

“There must be photos and I have to see them.”

“I have told _maman_ that she can’t show them to anyone.”

“But I am not just anyone,” I said, thumbing the hollow of his jaw.

“No, you’re my Oliver,” he whispered, suddenly serious.

We kissed and kissed until his stomach grumbled.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepishly, and I leaned down to kiss his tummy.

“Come on, let’s get going,” I exclaimed, and pulled him out of bed with me.

I went down to breakfast before him, leaving while he was still under the shower.

“How was the film?” I asked Samuel, after we’d exchanged greetings. Annella was talking to Anchise, who was trimming the branches of a pomegranate tree.

“Very interesting,” he replied, as he passed me the coffee jug. “The question of identity is always gripping, even after hundreds of philosophers have tried, more or less successfully, to grapple with it.” He smiled, “But maybe it’s too early in the day to broach such a ponderous subject. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I replied, “I’m at your disposal today, if you need my help.”

“What about your book?”

“I think I have the conclusions ready. I want to check on a couple of references then perhaps you could take a look?”

“You don’t have to ask,” he replied, “Of course I will. Although I’m certain it will need no tweaks this time.”

“No going back to the drawing board or firming up my theories?” I quipped, quoting the advice he’d given me last year.

He shook his head, watching as I clumsily broke the shell of my soft boiled egg.

I was sitting with my back to the door and I didn’t hear Elio’s steps, since he was wearing espadrilles. He came up behind me, leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “Let me do it,” he said, taking charge of my egg.

Samuel beamed at us then pretended to find something interesting to read on the front page of his newspaper.

Well, one thing was settled then. It was surely better than a formal conversation, which my parents would have demanded if the parts had been reversed.

 

That afternoon, after I left Samuel’s study following a good few hours of hard and satisfactory work, I was supposed to go to the old castle for the last of my sittings. I’d meant to phone Patrice and tell him of my bruises, which were several shades of violet and very ugly, but I thought it better to tell him in person, so that I could also inform him about the shift in my relationship with Elio.

“Do you think that I should come too?” Elio asked.

“Better not,” I replied. “I don’t want him to think that we are boasting.”

“I’ll go see Marzia then,” he said, “Maybe we can go for ice creams at Bello’s.”  
It was the best _gelateria_ in the vicinity, even though they had just a handful of flavours and the owner was always grumpy.

“Eat one for me.”

He threw a lewd look at my Speedo-clad crotch; I gave him a kiss and sent him on his way. I was sure that left to his own devices, he’d have made some mischief.

 

“You are no Schiele or Balthus,” Patrice exclaimed, when he saw me stripped down to my shorts, “You look more like a Bacon. Did you get into a fight?”

I explained what had happened and he shuddered.

“I hate storms,” he said, “Luckily Flavia invited me to stay in her cellar. We had a picnic there, with champagne and _tartelettes_. We couldn’t hear a thing, because the walls are this thick,” he showed me with thumb and forefinger, “It’s like a bunker.”

“These very old houses were made to last, unlike the cardboard boxes we build these days. How are the cousins?”

“Oh, they have left already,” he said, clearly not interested about the two young boys, “To the Riviera Adriatica with Flavia’s uncle and aunt; Cesenatico, I think, but I could be wrong. They went to stay at the Grand Hotel. They were very excited.”

“Are you planning to go anywhere?”

He cast me a bemused look. “Have you spoken with Mattia?” I replied in the negative. “Yes, we are planning to go to Lake Como for a couple of weeks. The Malinvernis have an apartment there.”

He told me to put my shirt back on, since he’d only retouch my face, hair and legs.

“I guess I better shut up then,” I said, to which he replied that yes, I should, with the customary rudeness that no longer offended me.

He worked for at least one hour on my head then he moved on to my legs. As he cleaned his brushes, he stared at me for a moment then his lips curved into a half-smile.

“How’s Elio doing?” he asked.

“Fine, he’s gone to see Marzia this afternoon.”

“Was he afraid to come here in case I made a scene? I don’t do that anymore.”

I stayed silent, not knowing what to reply and waiting for him to make the next move.

“Elio must have gone crazy when he saw you like this,” he indicated my bruises, “He loves to play nurse.”

“We’ve talked and-”

For the first time since I’d known him he laughed with unrestrained and childlike glee.

“Talked,” he repeated. “I’m not an idiot, you know?”

“Yes, well, we did other things too.”

“You got back together, as it was always supposed to end.”

“You think?”

He scowled.

“Now shut up and resume your pose.”

 

When I went to collect my bike, I saw Mattia playing tennis with Stefano. I approached them and waited for the game to end.

The three of us chatted for a bit until Mattia announced he had to go meet some friends; he asked us if we wished to join him, but we declined.

“Haven’t seen you for a while,” Stefano said, “I heard you were caught up in the storm and that you got injured while playing hero.”

I knew I had Paride’s wife Diletta to thank for spreading that bit of gossip. Anchise had warned me, called her worse than the _Gazzettino_ , the local newspaper.

“I did what I could, nothing that spectacular.”

He noticed the bluish blotch on my collarbone. “That looks painful.”

“Looks worse than it feels,” I replied.

“Aside from that, you seem well. Elio’s made up his mind at last?”

I tried not to show how happy I was. Somehow, it seemed unkind.

“Yes, I think we’re getting there. We are on the same page, which is more than I could have asked for when I came back.”

He was going to pat my arm then he thought better of it and shook my hand instead.

“Come to dinner,” I said, but he had promised Lara that he’d take her to the cinema.

“Are you two---?” I asked.

“Just friends, but who knows?” he replied, and I didn’t press him further.

We agreed that we’d meet the following day at the pond with his brother and the girls and that I’d bring Elio with me. That would be our first official outing as a couple and I was looking forward to it.


	25. People are People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was always bound to happen, but still it hurts...
> 
> Oliver's POV
> 
> Warning: homophobic language and behaviour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People are People - Depeche Mode - 1984

_“I can't understand_  
_What makes a man_  
_Hate another man_  
_Help me understand”_

 

I returned before dinner time and found Elio lying supine on the bed: he was wearing his denim shorts and nothing else; his eyes were closed and he was holding a pillow against his tummy. When he heard me approach, he uttered a pitiful whimper, like that of a dejected puppy.

“It’s your fault,” he whined, “I had your ice-cream, like you said.”

I sat down next to him and caressed his face and the curls which framed it.

“Which size cone did you get?”

“The extra large,” he whispered.

“Both times?”

He nodded, scrunching his nose. I lay down by his side and kept caressing him: his neck, collarbone, arm, wrist, hand.

“It’s not my fault, is it?” I asked, stupidly.

“No, and anyway it’s better than a nosebleed.”

“Don’t tempt fate.”

Elio attempted a laugh but it came out as a gasp.

“I could rub your feet,” I offered, “Or prepare you hot lemon tea.”

He chose the former, so I got the bottle of lavender oil from the bathroom and slicked my hands with it. The pressure of my thumb along the arch of his foot made him hiss and writhe. Nothing had changed, I grinned. While I worked to release his tension, I encouraged him to talk.

“How was Patrice?” he asked, gazing at me through half-lidded eyes.

“Fine, I think. They are going to Lake Como for a couple of weeks; with the entire family. He guessed about us.”

“Did he, what did he say?”

“He saw my bruises and said that you like to play nurse.”

Elio tut-tutted.

“Was that a lie?” I asked.

“No, but that’s different,” he replied. He seemed flustered, so I eased off a little.

“It wasn’t pity, or wanting to care for you, at least it wasn’t only that.”

I ducked down and kissed the inside of his ankle.

“I know,” I said, “I was there: you sucked me off and I did the same to you.”

He made a face.

“Not romantic enough?”

“Very,” he replied, drily. He removed the pillow, which had been covering him from stomach to crotch. I noticed the bulge which tented his shorts. My mouth watered, but I didn’t want to presume; after all, Elio was sick and I didn’t want to take advantage. He unzipped and I saw that he was wearing no underpants.

“Massage me, please,” he whispered, raising his arms above his head.

“Your wish,” I replied, and straddled his thighs.

My hands were glistening with oil and when I closed them around his dick, he cried out; “oh my god, oh god,” and I cursed myself for still being dressed.

He was white and slender against the cornflower sheets; I took one hand off his erection and wrapped it around his throat. His eyes shot open; he thought I’d forgotten.

“Like this?” I murmured, “Tighter,” he replied. He was leaking at the slit and his glans was purple already. I stroked him hard and fast, twisting on the upstroke and brushing his swollen sac on the downstroke. If I hadn’t been sitting on his legs, he’d have arced clean off the bed.

He was so worked up that he started speaking Italian, “ _Vengo, mi fai venire_ , Oliver, _vengo, vengo_ ,” he sobbed, announcing his orgasm; jets of semen spattered my chest and his stomach. I lapped him clean and he insisted of doing the same, but I didn’t indulge him. “You had enough cream for one day,” I said, and he pulled me down for a kiss which was all teeth and tongue and the taste of his load.

“I owe you twice,” he panted.

“Not that I am keeping score, but yes,” I smiled, “Since you are ill, I’m gonna take care of this myself,” I indicated my groin, “But you can watch, if you like.”

“No, no, no, you are not doing that to me again,” he said, biting into my upper arm.

“Do it against me,” he begged, and turned to the side, wiggling his ass.

I got naked in an instant and smeared my cock with oil.

“I want your hand on my neck,” he whispered, and I obeyed, wrapping my free arm around his waist and pressing my palm to his belly.

From that moment on, every move I made was frantic and close to an animalistic rut: I wanted him badly and he was melting into me, becoming part of me.

He moaned and spurred me on, speaking a mixture of Italian and French; I didn’t understand much, but it drove me insane. I came all over his back and on his tiny peach, which I licked and soothed as though it truly were a succulent fruit.

 

“Are you feeling better?” I enquired, as I cleaned him up with a towel.

“Much,” he replied, raking his fingers through my hair. “I met Susanna today.”

“I see. Was she very upset?”

He sighed, “She burst into tears right in the middle of the _piazzetta_. Her friend was with her and threw all sorts of insults at me.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“What did she say?”

“He; his name is Pierluigi, Pigi to his friends. Oh, you know the usual: bastard, liar and all that.”

He wasn’t looking me in the face.

“What else?”

Elio chewed his lower lip and frowned.

“You better tell me.”

“Okay,” he said, “He called me a faggot who likes to take it up the ass. I do, so he got me there.”

“I could knock him out but it would only make things worse.”

He hugged me and I held him to me, as tight as I could.

“In the past, I could have challenged him to a duel,” I murmured into his curls, “But he’d have been too cowardly and run away, I bet.”

“I’d love to see you in breeches and thigh-high boots.”

“That’s another Halloween costume sorted,” I said, kissing his earlobe.

I could hear Mafalda setting up the table outside and vaguely smelled the aroma of cooked meat.

“Wanna come down to dinner?” I asked, “Do you feel like eating something?”

Elio chuckled, “I wouldn’t miss spit-roast chicken for the world,” he replied, “It’s my favourite thing in the world.”

I feigned to be offended, “I thought I was your favourite thing.”

“One of them,” he quipped, and his lips twitched.

“Lucky me,” I said, and meant it, from the bottom of my heart.

 

I should have predicted what happened on the following afternoon, but I was too high on love and on Elio. Being back together made me so happy that I couldn’t see past him.

We met Stefano and the others at the pond; it was about three when we arrived and they were already there. Marzia and Raffaele arrived about an hour later.

“We never really talked,” Stefano said to Elio, “but I’m really happy for the two of you.”

“Thanks,” Elio replied, obviously embarrassed, “You’ve been a very good friend to Oliver. I may have been a tiny bit jealous of you; only a bit.”

“No reason,” Stefano replied, “Oliver was never a free agent.”

“I’m here, you know,” I intervened, smiling. Elio leaned into me and I ruffled his curls.

“Who’s up for a swim?” shouted Daniele. Lara and Orietta removed their sundresses and sandals and followed him into the water. The rest of us joined them a few moments later.

Elio and I found a place behind the reeds where he could indulge in a few chaste kisses and some playful wrestling.

The splashing of the water muffled the voices, until they were close enough to be heard above the noise.

“That’s him,” the boy said, “That’s the _frocetto_ I told you about. And that must be his boyfriend. Imagine taking that one up the ass; that must hurt,” he sneered.

Elio’s jaw was clenched and his cheeks were aflame.

I moved away from him in order to take a better look: Pigi, the one who had spoken, was short and stocky, but with an excess of baby fat which made him look like a putto in a Renaissance painting.  His friend was more muscled, but nothing that I couldn’t deal with, if we came to blows.

“Stay here,” I told Elio, and strode out of the water, towards them. He tried to stop me, but the blood was whistling in my ears and I was seeing red.

“What did you just say?” I hissed.

They eyed me up and down with contempt, but there was fear mingled with it.

“ _L’americano_ ,” the second boy said, “Why don’t you go back to your country? We don’t want your AIDS over here.”

“I’m not proposing to sleep with either of you, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Pigi scowled, “We don’t go with men,” he said, “It’s disgusting.”

“That’s your prerogative, but it doesn’t give you the right to insult Elio, me or anyone who doesn’t share your opinions.”

“It’s against nature,” he insisted.

“Not really. Many animals are bisexual too.”

“What?” Second boy exclaimed, “You are making this up.”

“Ask your biology teacher.”

“We are not animals.”

“Yes, we are.”

Pigi spat at the ground, “You are getting what you deserve.”

I really wanted to smash his face in, but I tried to stay calm.

“It doesn’t concern you. I don’t care who you sleep with and you should not care about Elio’s chosen partners. Keep your disgust to yourself and I’ll let you keep your teeth. And this goes for you too,” I said to Second boy. I squared my shoulders and balled by hands into fists. They considered the situation then muttered something and walked away.

Elio came up to me and stroked my back.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Not an option,” I replied, “You can’t let them get away with thinking their behaviour is acceptable.”

He looked sad and pensive.

“I don’t want you to get into trouble,” he said.

I held his face in my hands and looked him straight in the eye, “This was to be expected, sooner or later. There will be more of that in our future, if we choose to spend it together. I’ll understand if you decide that you can’t stand it. No one should be subjected to abuse because of the person they love, but that’s the hand we’ve been dealt.”

“You wouldn’t be, if you were still with your fiancée.”

“That’s also true,” I replied, “But I don’t want to be without you. You are who I want to be with.”

His eyes filled with tears, “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t flirted with Susanna, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“That wasn’t your brightest moment,” I said, “But you know that’s not true. We’ve lived in our bubble, but reality will be harsher, here or elsewhere.”

He nodded his head and I wiped his tears away.

“What happened?” Marzia asked.

She must have noticed the altercation, I thought. I let Elio explain it to her, and stepped away from them, to give them privacy. They talked for a while then she hugged him and he held her, but his eyes were on me. I smiled at him and he smiled back.

 

After dinner, I took Samuel aside and told him what had happened, without mentioning my plans for the future.

“Sometimes I wonder whether civilisation peaked in Ancient Greece,” he said, “Or at least before the advent of Christianity.”

“Don’t let your rabbi hear you,” I joked.

He offered me whisky and I drank it slowly, savouring it.

“You and Elio have something special,” he said, “Don’t let anyone ruin it. Block those voices out, even when they are loud and overbearing. Surround yourself with good people, but remember to exercise caution. Confide only in those you trust and never regret what you do out of love, because that can never be wrong.”

“I wish my father were as wise as you,” I replied, “Or as tolerant.”

“He must love you.”

“Maybe, but that’s not the sort of love that I’d wish on anyone: do as I say or you’re on your own.”

Samuel stayed silent, but he squeezed my hand briefly, to show me that he was on my side.


	26. The Promise You Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we are.... the end.  
> It was an absolute pleasure to write this story and I am so happy I did manage to finish it!!!  
> It could have gone on another few chapters, but maybe not.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who supported it and who commented every single time, to those who gave kudos and those who read and enjoyed it. I haven't yet replied to all the comments, but I will do that soon, I promise!!!!!
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Promise You Made - Cock Robin - 1985 (I cheated a bit but since it's the last chapter...)

_“If I gave you my soul for a piece of your mind_  
_Would you carry me with you to the far edge of time?”_

 

Two days later, Elio found out that he’d passed his exams with the top score of 60/60, which meant no fees for his first University year, if he decided to stay in Italy.

The Perlmans had no money problems, but it was an issue I hadn’t considered: here he could study virtually for free, while in the States he would have to pay or apply for a grant or a scholarship. 

We went out for a celebratory dinner: the new fish restaurant on the canal had been proposed at first, but Elio had insisted that he wanted to go back to Sirmione.

It was just the four of us, since Marzia had gone away for a few days to celebrate her equally splendid results.

Samuel suggested we spend the day there: we visited the _Scaliger Castle_ , the _Church of St. Peter_ and the _Cà dei Frati_ winery. The latter was Elio’s favourite, despite the lecture we were given about the history of the place, which dated back to the 18 th century.

“I want to go to Jamaica Beach,” he said afterwards, his lips still red from the wine-tasting.

“You shouldn’t have swallowed the wine,” I joked, “It’s in the rules: swirl, savour and spit out.”

He giggled and nudged me with his elbow, “You’re kidding? That’d be stupid, wouldn’t it? And you did not spit either.”

“I had two glasses,” I replied, “You had six and now you are wasted.”

“Am not,” he muttered.

Annella tousled her son’s hair, “That beach will be too crowded, _tesoro_ ,” she said, “But we could go on a boat tour, if Oliver can face the prospect again.”

It was a sunny day with a cloudless sky and not a gust of wind.

“As long as there’s no thunderstorm, I’ll be okay,” I replied, prodding the large bruise on my side. It was yellowish and no longer painful, but even uglier in appearance.

Samuel knew someone who owned a boat and had phoned to him in advance. His name was Carlo and he had a shock of white hair framing a wrinkled face; his skin was like cracked brown leather. Carlo's boat was named _Priscilla_ and he kept it in immaculate condition.

He congratulated Elio and proposed a toast with some local fizzy wine. Samuel explained about the winery, but his friend wouldn’t be deterred.  I didn’t want to deprive Elio of his moment of glory, but we were going to be sailing and I was worried that the alcohol combined with the boat’s motion would make him sick.

He noticed that I was worried, “I’ll feel great after a swim,” he told me. His nose was pink and I wished I could kiss it.

 

Carlo knew the lake and its environs like the proverbial back of his hand. We went past Jamaica Beach and, like Annella had predicted, it was crowded and noisy.

In the end, we chose the beach of Lazise, but Annella and Samuel decided to stay on the boat with Carlo.

We swam towards the rocks and climbed up on them to enjoy the view.

“This is heaven,” Elio said, winking at me.

He’d fallen asleep the moment he got aboard the _Priscilla_ and now his inebriation seemed to have evaporated.

Behind us was a secluded sandy beach. It looked as though it could be private property, but since there was no signage indicating as much, we grabbed two deckchairs from a pile outside a deserted kiosk and lay down on them, facing the sun.

We closed our eyes and held hands: I felt as though we were the only two people in the world; the survivors of a shipwreck, the lovers at the dawn of a new era.

“I have thought about it,” he murmured after a while. “There’s something I never told you.”

I turned to look at him and he blinked then shielded his eyes with his hand.

“You know that _maman_ inherited the villa from my great-uncle? Well, he left me some money and I got it when I turned 18. It’s a large sum, part of it is invested in bonds and other stuff I don’t understand, but a chunk has been set aside for my education.”

“In Italy, you wouldn’t have to spend a cent,” I argued, “And the standard is rather high. You wouldn’t be sacrificing quality for thrift.”

“Have you changed your mind about me coming to New York?” he asked, sounding worried.

I squeezed his hand, “I’m playing devil’s advocate,” I replied, “I told you what I want and it isn’t going to change.”

“That’s good to know, because I’ve made up my mind to come and stay with you.”

He was beaming and I was staring at him and smiling like a lunatic. Since there was no one around, I pulled him on top of me and kissed him until we were both hot and bothered.

“Better not get arrested for indecency,” I said, depositing him back on his deckchair. He was soft and sweaty, and I had to pinch the base of my erection in order to cool down.

“Have you discussed it with your parents?”

He nodded, “Last night, after I got the results. They already suspected and were so glad. Oliver, you should have seen their faces! Dad wanted to call you into the study, but I said I wished to tell you once we were alone.”

“I have a free week before term starts and I could show you around, for a change,” I said, making him laugh.

“Yes, I’d love that,” he replied. “But I want to make one thing very clear, before we start making plans: I have enough money to be on my own and you have to promise to tell me the moment you feel something isn’t working. I’m not depending on you; in this arrangement we are equals: I will pay my share of rent, bills and any additional expense.”

“Very businesslike,” I said, but of course he was right.

“I don’t want to be treated like a kid if we are going to build a future together.”

“Always the voice of wisdom,” I mocked, and he slapped my shoulder, playfully.

“You make me so happy,” I added, pressing his hand to my chest, where my heart was thumping madly.

“Wait until you find my dirty socks under your pillow,” he said. His face was aglow with joy.

“One secret deserves another: I may have a thing for your dirty socks. I stole one from the laundry basket and took it home with me, last year. It was white with pink bunnies.”

He stared at me, wide-eyed. “I was looking for it everywhere. I even shouted at Mafalda. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why do you think? I felt stupid, after I called you sick and twisted for wanting my shirt and my swimsuit.”

“I still have your shirt,” he said, “Billowy,” he murmured.

“You didn’t throw it away?”

He shook his head; we gazed into each other’s eyes and I could have sworn the love between us was a tangible entity, like a ribbon of silk which bound our souls together.

The restaurant was in Desenzano and Annella has reserved a table on the waterfront.

Elio had told his parents about our conversation and there were handshakes and hugs coming my way, like I’d never experienced in my entire lifetime from my parents. It was almost too much for Elio, who was bouncing around like a pinball.

“I still can’t believe that I got top score. I wasn’t too convinced about Manzoni.”

We asked him to explain.

“Well, the President of the _Commissione_ was clearly obsessed with Manzoni and as you know, I don’t like him much. His prose is lovely but the religious slant,” he scrunched his nose. “I could tell that she knew what I thought even if I tried not to let it show.”

“Your face is an open book,” his mother said.

“I’ll have to work on it,” Elio replied, looking at me. I raised my arms in a surrendering gesture. “Not on my account,” I said. “And anyway, your charm will always win the day.”

Samuel agreed, and watched as his son blushed, which made him even more endearing. I was consumed with love for this boy, this talented, sweet, bright creature.

 

On the drive back, we talked about D’Annunzio’s house-museum, _Il Vittoriale_ , which Elio had refused to visit.

“He was a nihilist and is credited with having invented Fascism,” he said.

“You didn’t write that in your _prova scritta_ , I imagine,” replied his father.

“I ignored him altogether,” Elio argued, “I wrote about Montale instead.”

“His direct opposite, in every way,” chimed in Annella, who clearly agreed with her son.

“The _Vittoriale_ is a wonderful museum,” insisted Samuel, “Perhaps Oliver would have liked to visit it, regardless of the poet’s political orientation.”

Elio gazed at me, waiting for my response, as though I were the Oracle of Delphi.

“I’ve never liked him either,” I said, “I can survive happily without seeing where he lived. But I appreciate the point your father is trying to make. We can’t always draw the line where we’d like to. Compromise is a pill we all have to swallow, at some point.”

Elio made a face, “I know, but can we not start now?”

We all laughed, and he threw me a cheeky wink.

 

That night, Elio was more ethereal than ever. Maybe because he’d established his independence from me, or due to the elation produced by a day spent in perfect bliss and accord: I couldn’t say and I didn’t want to question him, but he was light and pliant in my arms, and his gazes and touches were like butterflies: soft ad fleeting.

I’d have been content with holding and kissing him, but he had other ideas.

“Oliver,” he murmured, after we’d undressed and stretched out on the bed, side by side. He caressed my face and throat, while biting his lips.

“Tell me,” I spoke as quietly, unwilling to spoil the moment.

He poured his request into my ear, burying his flushed face into my neck.

It was partly a game, I knew it, since he could be assertive and blunt, if he wanted to be. There wasn’t a version of Elio that I didn’t want, an incarnation which didn’t turn me on. This one, though, appealed to something inside of me that I had hardly known existed and that he had unearthed with unerring flair.

I removed his shirt and shorts, slowly, dropping random kisses on his torso and legs, but ignoring his arousal.

“On your hands and knees,” I said, firmly yet without raising the tone of my voice.

We had switched the lights off, except for the Oxford one, over which I had thrown a red handkerchief. Elio’s white skin was a warmer hue and I felt as though we were in a harem and he was mine to seduce and to satisfy.

He did as told; he spread his legs wide and arched his back, while his cheek was mashed into the pillow.

“Is this what you want?” I asked; he’d told me, but I wanted to hear his voice.

“Yes, I need you, Oliver,” he replied, already hoarse.

“Okay, but promise me to be quiet.”

In the attic, we had screamed without restraint, but here we had to be more careful.

“I promise,” he said, mouthing the fresh cotton of the pillowcase.

I removed my boxers then made sure the tube of KY and a pack of condoms were within reach. I had to draw a few deep breaths in order to calm down. Elio was shaking; a fine tremor that stopped as soon as I put my hands on him.

I massaged his ass, kneading the muscle and stroking the delicate skin close to his entrance; he opened up to me and let out muffled whimpers that went straight to my balls. After minutes of this, we were both getting impatient.

“I’m here,” I murmured, as I brought my lips to his rim. I had anticipated his reaction and held him still as he tried to thrust. “Remember the promise you made,” I wasn’t scolding him, but it was delivered as an order. I felt him relax, as he let me be in charge. It was lucky that he couldn’t see me, because I was as highly strung as he was. But Elio needed me and I would not disappoint him.

I started with kitten licks which became devouring kisses: I used the entirety of my tongue to loosen him up and savour his insides. I had not forgotten how earthy and salty he was, and how loudly he moaned when I fingered his sac as I plunged deep into the core of him.

I was leaking on to the sheets and had been for a while, when Elio started begging me to take him. He was asking in every language he knew, and at one point his words became mewls and pretty whimpers. I had no choice or I would have come just by listening to him.

As soon as we were both ready, I slowly made my way inside of him, resisting his attempts at having me plunge right into him.

“I want it, so much, please, please, Oliver,” he sobbed, when I was all inside but still did not move; it was costing me my sanity, but I would not hurt him.

I caressed and kissed his back, and when he was no longer frantic, I began thrusting. I pulled out almost completely than drove into him with such violence he bit into his hand. He squeezed me so tightly I thought I’d made him come.

“Fuck, again, again, please,” he cried, and I let him have it, all of it, for as long as he liked, until pleasure overtook us and there was nothing left to spend.

 

We fell asleep but woke up when it was still dark outside.

Elio wanted to talk and so did I.

“I don’t want to use condoms,” he said, “We never did, last year.”

“I got tested before coming here, for insurance purposes,” I replied, “But I didn’t wish to take stupid chances with your health.”

He nuzzled my neck, “I hadn’t slept with anyone since you left me.”

Those words still hurt.

“We’ll both get checked in the States,” I said.

“You don’t believe that I will come to live with you?”

I held him close and kissed his forehead.

“Of course I do, but we can take things slowly this time.”

He smiled. “You want to court me?”

“You bet,” I grinned, “A marvel like you, I can’t take anything for granted.”

“A marvel, uh?”

“In and out of bed,” I joked.

“Old and perverted,” he mocked.

We wrestled for a bit then we went back to sleep, breathless and happy.


	27. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promised you an epilogue and here it is.
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> Enjoy!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your lovely comments. I will reply to them asap. I love you all.

At the beginning of September, New York was as sweltering hot as Italy.

I had visited it as a kid and it seemed like a lifetime ago. I did not remember much, aside from the skyscrapers and the salt beef bagels.

Oliver had insisted on taking a taxi, while I had wanted to try the subway.

“Remember Rome?” he joked, “The woman on the bus who shouted at you when you decided to hop off as soon as you’d hopped on?”

“It was too real,” I replied.

“There are rats in the subway. In fact, there are rats in the alleys behind my apartment block. You better avoid the side-walks when it’s dark.”

He’d already lectured me on the perils of city life: the drug addicts, the criminals, the cockroaches and bed bugs, the garbage lining the streets, the indifference of the locals.

“It sounds awful,” I argued, as he kissed the constellation of freckles on my back. “Why do you want to live there if it’s so bad?”

“It’s like a carcass infested with maggots,” he replied, laughing at my moue of disgust. “It may not be pretty or inviting, but it’s crawling with life.”

He explained that a group of up-and-coming artists had taken over part of a building close to Oliver’s and turned it into a night club. They had blacked out the skylights and windows and painted most of it gold.

“Have you been there?” I asked.

“Once,” he said, “But I was with--- and she didn’t like the crowd.”

“You can say her name, I don’t mind. Why didn’t Lucy like it?”

“She’s a lawyer and they weren’t paying rent. She didn’t approve.”

“And you?”

“I thought they had a point. After all, the place was falling apart and the landlord was letting it go to ruin. And not aristocratic ruin, like the old castle: we are talking about mould on the walls and rust in the plumbing.”

“Like the lyrics of a song,” I said, “You are good with words.”

He licked the ridge of my spine and murmured, “And you with music. We were always meant to be together.”

I shuddered with pleasure and closed my eyes.

 

Oliver’s apartment was downtown, on Walker Street. The building was old but well kept; the elevator was ancient and belonged in a horror movie: it clanged and creaked as it ascended to the third floor, emitting a loud bang when it finally reached its destination.

“You’ll get used to it,” said Oliver, when he saw my bewildered expression.

“Did you ever get trapped inside it?”

“Only once,” he replied, “But you can see outside, so it’s not too claustrophobic. I forced the doors open a chink so that I could smoke while I waited.”

I resolved to take the stairs. Only three flights: it was feasible when you had no luggage. Not that I had much with me: only a suitcase and a backpack. My parents had insisted they’d send the rest of my stuff before the arrival of winter. They wanted to make sure I wouldn’t change my mind, but they never said it in so many words. Oliver understood and never questioned me, but I was certain that I’d never leave him, not unless he wanted me to.

 

Oliver had taken over the apartment from a Jewish man named Saul Schneider. He’d used to own a small bookshop that had been sold off to developers once he’d retired. Oliver had been one of his most frequent customers and they’d become friends; they would discuss every topic under the sun, drink ink-black coffee and listen to old, scratched jazz records. The building was rent-controlled, meaning that the rent was ridiculously low, even after considering the increase following the previous tenant’s death. Oliver had changed most of the furniture, stripped out the carpets and wallpaper, refreshed the paint and replaced the doors and windows. He’d decided to keep Schneider’s bookshelves, because they reminded him of his friend. Some of the books he’d owned had been requisitioned by a distant relative, but most of them were still there, since they were of little or no value.

 

I had noticed how nervous Oliver was from the moment we sat inside the taxi.

He was talking in bouts then falling silent and staring outside the window. I attributed his behaviour to tiredness and nerves, because reality was suddenly upon us, after weeks of nothing but love, freedom and the warm embrace of summer.

“Are you alright?” I asked, interrupting one of his silences.

He smiled softly, “Yes, it’s a bit of shock. Being here, with you; a good one, but it’s just--- different.”

“I can’t wait to see your place,” I exclaimed, and saw the tension in his clenched jaw.

 

We entered the diminutive hallway and when Oliver closed the door behind me, I was invaded by a feeling I’d never experienced before. For the first time, I was setting foot into Oliver’s world, breathing his air and touching the objects who had known him before I did. It was unsettling and delicious: a form of possessiveness I’d never encountered and which was making my heart thump and my throat dry.

“I know it’s not huge, nothing compared to your villa,” he said, misunderstanding my reaction.

“Don’t,” I interrupted, “Please show me the rest of it.”

He did, and I was enchanted by the compactness of the space, by how organised Oliver was and how cleverly he’d used every nook and cranny to suit his needs. The kitchen was pale yellow and spotless, with pots hanging from hooks and a tall narrow fridge decorated with magnets. The living room was luminous and large enough to contain a couch, two armchairs and a teak coffee table. There was a stereo system and a turntable, which I guessed had belonged to the previous tenant.

The bathroom didn’t have a tub, but the shower was new and the tiles had been recently replaced.

“Wanna see our bedroom?” he asked me, with a tense smile.

I nodded, and he took me by the hand.

For some reason, I had imagined it would be modern and Spartan, with no objects in sight, white bed linen, clean lines and light wood.

The bedstead was in wrought iron and the bed sheets were the colour of ripe plums. The closet was made of solid oak and it was more than spacious enough to hide a lover, like in a French farce. I told him as much and that, at last, made him relax.

He held me from behind, resting his cheek against my curls.

“I don’t intend to have lovers,” he murmured.

“Just the one?”

“Yes, what about you?”

I tilted my head to the side so that I could kiss him.

“I haven’t even started loving you,” I said, before his tongue caressed mine.

 

I was wearing only Oliver’s unbuttoned shirt and a pair of flip-flops, while sipping chilled white wine and listening to a live recording of Nina Simone.

He was in the kitchen, preparing a cheese omelette with a side of pickled onions, because that’s what he had in the fridge. He’d wanted to go shopping for groceries, but I had stopped him.

“We can go together,” I said, as I kissed down his chest and stomach, “Tomorrow. Let’s enjoy the apartment today. I want to get to know it.”

He laughed and stroked my sweaty neck.

“It’s all here, I’m afraid. No secret chambers or hidden compartments.”

“You make it sound so unattractive. I’m offended on its behalf.”

“I’m sure the apartment is very grateful of your support.”

“Well, it’s my place too and you shouldn’t talk it down.”

He gave me one of his widest, brightest smiles.

“Why were you nervous before?” I asked, and he didn’t deny it.

“You are used to luxury and I can’t really afford it. Not yet, at least.”

I buried my face into the hollow of his throat, inhaled the scent of our lovemaking.

“That wasn’t my house,” I said, “It was my parents’. I never wanted a palace. I want to be where you are.”

“I never shared this with anybody else.”

“And Lucy?”

“She was staying over, sometimes, but she never moved in. I never asked her to.”

“Why not?”

He sighed, as he stroked my back. “She didn’t like the area. And I relished my privacy; being alone while I prepared my lessons or marked papers. I needed a place where I could exist as a separate entity.”

I pulled back from him, “Won’t you feel the same about me?”

Oliver stared into my eyes and I got lost inside the pure blue of his gaze.

“I never want to be away from you,” he replied, “You are the best part of me.”

It was a moment of truth, intense and passionate, but I didn’t want him to cry, not even out of joy. I trailed my hand down to his groin.

“Personally, I think this is by far your greatest asset.”

He burst out laughing.

“Elio Perlman, all about dick,” he declaimed.

“A great title for a porn movie,” I joked.

“And how would you know?”

My reply ignited our desire again and it was after our second round that I demanded some food and was offered a cheese omelette.

 

We agreed to eat in the living room: he, sitting on the armchair by the low table, and I, cross-legged on the faded Turkish mat, my back against the front of the couch.

I had changed the record to a _Best of Billie Holiday_ , who was now crooning _Lover Man_ in her distinctive rich voice. The record was worn, but it only enhanced the character of the song.

“I feel like I’m living inside a Woody Allen movie,” I said.

“I promise there won’t be a neurotic middle aged Jewish man talking about shrinks and religion.”

“You don’t know any?”

He smiled, “I didn’t say that. I have a few colleagues who are like that, but I don’t meet them socially. My friends are my age or younger and they don’t yet need therapy.”

“Are you friends with any of your students?”

I tried to make it sound casual, but he knew me too well.

“No, that wouldn’t be professional.”

“What if I were one of them?”

“That would be a terrible distraction.”

I stretched my legs and splayed them wide.

“Pity that I am not a girl or a Scotsman,” I said, “I could wear a skirt with nothing underneath.”

“Warn me next time,” he gasped, between coughs.

 

After dinner, we sat on the couch, poring over Oliver’s books. Well, he sat on it, while I was perched on his lap, one hand playing with his hair.

“Is this yours?” I asked, leafing through a hardbound copy of Huxley’s _Eyeless in Gaza_.

“No, that was Saul’s. Look at the inscription.”

It said: “ _To the owner of the best bookstore in America_ ” and it was signed by the author.

I was dumbfounded. “I thought Huxley lived in California.”

“He must have come to New York, at some point. Unless Saul had a bookshop in California; he might have; he was rather secretive about his life. I don’t even know if he’d been married.”

“Do you think Saul might have lived over there too?”

Oliver looked perplexed. “He never spoke about it, but, yeah, maybe.”

“Couldn’t we find out more about him? Is there anyone we could ask?”

“I don’t think we should. If he’d wanted to, he’d have told me himself.”

Of course Oliver was right, but it seemed such a pity to hold that book in my hands, not knowing anything about when and where Saul and Huxley had crossed paths.

“I want to meet famous writers too, and musicians, and painters,” I said.

“Well, I told you about that loft turned nigh-club. I believe quite a few of the regulars are going to be very famous some day.”

“How do you know?”

He smiled broadly.

“I just have a feeling, like I do about you and your music.”

I pulled a strand of Oliver’s hair. “Maybe you are a talent scout.”

“And maybe you are a tease,” he replied, latching onto my neck and sucking on it.

 

We brought the bottle of wine to bed.

“I like to be alone with you,” I said, “I love my parents and Mafalda and all my friends, but it’s great to be in bed with my man without having to fear that someone will knock at the door, or call us down to lunch.”

“That never happened.”

“Last year, we never took a shower together.”

He nudged my shin with his foot.

“You’ll get bored with all this freedom.”

“Maybe in fifty years, but I doubt it.”

We sipped our wine and held hands, lacing our fingers together. Outside the window, the night was humid and noisy, but here, in our room, it was paradise.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated. Love is love is love....


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